


a story of need against need against need

by opheliahyde



Category: From Dusk Till Dawn: The Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Children, Alternate Universe - Daemons, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Priests, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Bullying, Canon-Typical Violence, Demons, Drug Use, F/F, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kid Fic, M/M, Mother-Son Relationship, Multi, Post-Series, Pre-Series, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2018-02-21 11:09:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 59
Words: 26,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2466113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/opheliahyde/pseuds/opheliahyde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Imagine a story where everything goes wrong, where everyone has their back against the wall, where everyone is in pain and acting selfishly because if they don’t, they’ll die. Imagine a story, not of good against evil, but of need against need against need, where everyone is at cross-purposes and everyone is to blame. " - Richard Siken</p><blockquote>
  <p>a collection of <i>from dusk till dawn</i> ficlets written for prompts on tumblr</p>
</blockquote>
            </blockquote>





	1. Intro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> **A FEW NOTES ON THIS COLLECTION ******  
> 

>   * First of all, welcome to my collection of drabbles and ficlets that I've done through ask memes on tumblr. Here you will find a wide variety of pairings, writing-styles, and word counts.
>   * Because this collection was created to house a variety of my short works that I've written throughout my time in the _From Dusk Till Dawn_ fandom, many works may come across "dated" or jossed—just imagine those pieces as "AU" universes. 
>   * In an effort to keep this collection as user-friendly and skimmable as possible so that any readers can find the ships they're interested in, I've organized the chapters by gen, then pairing fic, then organized alphabetically by first name of the characters involved. _Updates_ will be added accordingly from now on. Hopefully this will help make the reading experience easier. 
>   * In regards to Kisa: all stories involving her will be labelled with her chosen name, but some of those pieces will have her referred to as Santanico within the text—I feel it's unnecessary and disingenuous to re-edit those pieces to simply change her name, especially with pieces set before she had accepted herself as Kisa, therefore the original text will remain. 
>   * I do make an effort to put all warnings within the tag set for this collection, but if there is anything you need tagged or thought I should have warned for, please don't hesitate to comment and let me know! 
> 



	2. Kisa - gen - pedestal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt _canvas_.

She learned to sit still long before Malvado asked her to pose.

(young and awkward, too long limbs, nothing growing quite right, a skinny little thing the Lords stole from her mother’s arms and set her upon a dais and asked her to stay;

she shook for weeks until she grew used to people staring, grew used to her visitors falling to their knees, though her insides were twisting and churning, spilling out of her mouth when she was left alone, the smell spoiling in the heat)

He dresses her himself, peels off her clothes to her skin—she has learned better not to fight, stands still, jaw set as he stares for moments until her pulls her dress on, as his fingers stroke up the curve of her spins as he ties her laces, as he buttons her in. His hands are on her throat as he adorns her with heavy jewels he brought back from across the sea, lays them out across her chest. He has others pin and curl her hair, stain her lips red, line her eyes in kohl.

(he sets her on a chair and she is back on the dais, back on the altar, the artist peering at her, staring for hours as he works in paints, captures her again)

She never sees the finished product, Malvado approving the rendering of her image and paying the artist in gold, shining in his hands and has the canvas removed from the room.

All she sees is her reflection in the mirror, back in her room, looking at the girl Malvado made of her. 

She rips the necklace from her neck, breaking the chain, the jewels rolling on the floor and tears the pins from her hair, lets it fall down her back in black waves, smearing the paint on her face with her hands, turning her wild, eyes yellow as sobs roll up her throat, the tears washing the colors away in streaks.


	3. Maria (Richie&Seth's Mother) - gen - forgive me father

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt _before the beginning_.

Father Fitzpatrick smiles at her when she enters and it makes her flush, burning along the edges of her cheekbones—Maria hadn’t meant to make this a habit, but now it’s a routine.

It was always easier to sneak away mid-week than on Sundays with Ray watching her every move, to tell him she’s going out to get a few things to the store and take the boys with her, slipping out not to be missed for a few hours. Father Fitzpatrick climbs down off the dais to meet her halfway up the aisle, his stride long and he meets her baby-faced and  rosy-cheeked, too young to be anyone’s father, but he wears the collar, fresh out of seminary school. She always wanted to apologize to him for his assignment, for this neighborhood, but Maria had a feeling he’d wave her off, tell her it was an honor.

( _Sometimes she thinks it was best he devoted his life to God, too sweet for the rest of of the world, would’ve been eaten alive otherwise_.)

Maria slides Richie carefully off her hip, watching for his clinging hands as she sets Seth’s carrier down. “It’ll only be for a few minutes,” she says, looking up at Father Fitzpatrick, uncurling Richie’s fingers from her skirt as she stands up, tucking her hair behind her ear. “I hope it’s not an imposition?”

He smiles, broad and genuine. “Not at all.” He tips his head down at Richie, who then closes his eyes and fits himself against her leg. “We’re making progress, I think? One day we’ll be friends.”

Maria sighs, but keeps her features soft when she slips to her knees and cups Richie’s cheek. His eyes open slow, tension relaxing before his eyelids flutter open and his eyes meet hers, wide and intense, his stare holding hers. “I will be right back, I promise.” His bottom lip quivers, his eyes watering. “Hey, hey now,”she soothes, stroking her thumb across his cheek. “Someone’s got to look after Seth. Can you do that for me? Stay with Seth and watch him?”

It’s startling to watch how his face shifts, drawing back tears that hadn’t fallen yet and setting his jaw, too serious a look on a toddler’s face, but he nods, shifting away to sit himself next to Seth’s carrier, hands on the edge, peering inside to watch his brother.

Maria picks herself up, watching Seth gurgle up at his mouth, wide toothless smile stretching open his mouth. “He shouldn’t have a tantrum now—” She pauses, feeling Father Fitzpatrick’s eyes on her as she reaches behind her neck, unclasping the silver crucifix from around her neck—it had been her mother’s, and her mother’s mother before that, and one of the few things that was  _hers_. “Hey,”she says, kneeling down beside Richie; his eyes flick to hers, before darting back to Seth. Maria picks up his hand, flips open his palm and drops the necklace into it. “Thanks Richie.” He doesn’t turn again, but he unfurls the cross and dangles it above Seth’s reach, lets it sparkle in the light.

Maria stands, meeting Father Fitzpatrick’s gaze—there’s a heavier feeling to it now, watching her with careful consideration, sizing her up; she wonders if he spots the fading bruising on her arms, the dark shadows under her eyes that makeup never did a damn good at hiding, what he thinks now that he’s got a good look at her. “They should be fine now.”

He nods as she passes, brushing her hand across his shoulder as thanks, making her way down the aisle, turning towards the confessional booth.

Maria crosses herself when she enters, closing the door behind her, then seats herself. “Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. It’s been a week since my last confession.”


	4. Scott&Seth - gen - along for the ride

The kid is scrawny and small, scrunched up in the passenger’s seat with his feet up on the dash, with a set to his jaw that juts out his chin and eyes that could slice someone open, as sharp as they are; Seth remembers feeling that way, ready to burst out of his skin because of the anger in his belly burning hotter than the hunger churning his guts, making him clench his fists to hold himself steady, to keep him from lashing out at the first available target. 

"I could help, you know," Scott says, voice strained and breaking. "I know how to shoot, I can do it, if you’d let me—" 

"You wanna kill someone?" Seth asks, sliding the car to the side of the road, jerking it into park. "You ready for that? Judging by the how green you turn whenever I mention it, my bet’s on not." He sighs, running a hand down his face. "Can I take you some place? Take you home?" 

Scott jerks in the seat, a violent twist of his limbs towards the car door. “I never had a home,” he gasps out.

"Yeah, well," Seth says, having to settle back in his seat. "Homes are overrated, kid." 


	5. Hunt you down until you love me - Carlos/Freddie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt _Carlos stalks him periodically back to Texas_.

The _rinche_  had gone home and Carlos hadn’t decided if that was an entirely stupid move or smarter than he’d given time to consider—his wife ( _Margaret_ , he remembers from being inside his head, hears it again like it just rolled off his tongue) had been furious and the echo of it reverberated outside the house, her fists going into his chest—Carlos can still taste the tension, but the anger had cooled with relief washing down the walls. They’re quiet, staring at each other from across the dining room table, therinche’s little girl in his lap, his mouth brushing down across the top of her head. Perhaps it had been smart after all to go home, stand guard over his family ( _he knew Carlos would find his way here eventually; he’d had seen things, too_ ).

“What are we doing,  _mi amor_?” Santanico asks and his eyes snap to hers. She arches up and stretches in the passenger’s seat, rolling towards him with a furrowed brow and questioning eyes. “Why are we following this _rinche_?” She spits the words like it tastes bitter, full of disdain, like she had been around to see and not trapped inside that bar—Carlos had been there, had seen them hanging from the trees, had felt the anger burning like a pit fire in his stomach, but he knows when she speaks, the voice of her people comes through.

He pulls his gaze from hers, closes his eyes ( _it’s too late, she’s already seen_ ). “He surprised me. I don’t like it when people surprise me.”

Santanico laughs at his side, high and full, coming from her throat and she falls back against the seat. Falling silent as she picks herself back up, Santanico crawls across the console and into his lap; he looks up and meets her eyes ( _they’re everything and nothing, he sees her and he sees himself reflected back; sometimes it feels like they’re one and the same, she did make him, after all_ )—she grins at him when his hands settle on her hips, sharp and wicked. “Did you taste him?” she asks, leaning forward, her mouth dragging across his, tongue flickering inside before she tugs herself back, resting her forehead on his. “What did he taste like?”

 _Warm. Alive._  He wants to tell her he burned, but she already knows, she just wants to hear him say it. “Sweet.”

Her grin broadens, fangs descending—he reaches up, stroking his fingertips down the needle thin shafts. Santanico pushes his hand away and he lets it fall to her torso, sliding down her waist and she dips her head, the ends of her hair brushing his hands; the points of her fangs strokes the side of his neck, scratching as she breathes across his skin. “I think you like this _rinche, mi amor_.”


	6. It's a cold victory - Carlos/Freddie

Carlos lounges, sleek and loose-limbed, like a panther in a tree on his throne, grinning down at Freddie with teeth bared and eyes yellow, sliding his legs off the arm of ornate chair to sit back straight, hands curl over his desk—sharp-ended nails tapping across the mahogany surface, echoing in Freddie’s ears between each of his heavy steps, boots scraping against the stone floor.

“Report time already, peacekeeper?” Carlos asks, voice bright as his eyes glow, grin broadening. “So eager to see me?”

Freddie’s mouth flattens, can’t fake a smile, not anymore—not since it all went to shit and he hasn’t seen Margaret in two years, hasn’t gotten a chance to see Billy’s first steps, hear her first words; a young woman haunts his dreams at night, sorrow-eyed and burning with cold anger. Carlos laughs, full and loud, creeping joy like he can see inside Freddie’s head, peering right into his guts and peek into the fabric of his soul, like before—the sound of it rattles down his spine, churns his guts, and he wills his feet to bring himself closer.

He lays the file on the desk, sliding it over to Carlos—their fingers brush when Carlos takes it from him, deliberate and lingering as Carlos glance up at him from under a thick line of lashes, tongue darting out across his lips. “They’re heading North, towards Alaska—I think they figure the cold could be played to their advantage.” It’s a lie—he’s grown used to the taste, the way he rolls his tongue around the words, face trained and blank.

(they’re headed east, Kisa towing Seth behind her; Seth doesn’t talk much these days, half-alive husk of a human being kept going by her whispers in his ear, promises and vows—Kisa burning enough for the pair of them, power like that the only thing that plants seeds of fear in Carlos’ heart, along with the culebras that have flocked to her side, amassing quicker than Carlos can administer his blood– _I made her,_  he hissed, his hand around Freddie’s throat when he told him the news,  _where would she be without me?_ )

“ _La Diosa_ , tsk tsk,” he breathes out, clicking his jaw. “Not so clever without her  _pinche gringo_.” He turns to Freddie, his hands lifting up and fingers curling towards his palms. “You know, I can still feel that  _chingado_  going to ash in my hands. I wish I could deliver it to Seth in a box.”

Freddie tries not to recoil, tensing his muscles under his jacket. “Should I send out a scouting team?”

Carlos stands, loud scraping sound rumbling under their feet. “Yes,” he says, moving close–his body is always cool next to Freddie’s, lips like catching a chill across his forehead, burning his cheeks, ice on his lips when he presses a kiss there, claws under Freddie’s chin; Freddie trembles, despite himself. “Thank you. Peacekeeper. You have certainly lived up to your title.”


	7. future perfect/past tense  - Carlos/Kisa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt _things you didn’t say at all_

When it’s all said and done, Carlos joins her, keeping pace with her steps, walking away from the wreckage, the end of the battle at her side.

They don’t touch and she doesn’t look at him, but she lets him walk with her, keep her company now that Richard had sped off in a car with his brother— _los hermanos Gecko_  were never much for fighting, trickery and schemes, choosing flight always over fight, their precious hides worth more than any pride they might have had—and Carlos’ fledging had chosen his human sister over Carlos.

It’s easy.

Carlos is a habit of loneliness that she allows to persist.

He offers to show her the world, pulls out a map and tells her to pick anywhere, but she tells him Mexico, always Mexico,  _show me what they’ve done to my homeland._

They avoid the temples, she had enough of those for another five hundred years— _ruins_ , he tells her, _heaps of stone that tourists come to see, skin pinkening under the sun, taking pictures immersing themselves in the history_ ; it makes her laugh, bright and airy, and he smiles at her, so she takes a picture of him, standing outside a food stand on a street in Mexico City, steam rising up behind him.

(They eat a pair of them—tourists—luring them with easy smiles and offering to show them the  _real_  Mexico, whatever that had meant, left them in an alleyway with torn out throats and she kissed Carlos with a bloody mouth, head spinning and feeling heady, drunk from the kill, and finds steady feet with her lips on his.)

Santanico tries to make sense of her country, connect what Carlos had told her throughout the years to what she sees, thought if she could see it, if she could touch it would become real to her, but none of the places look the same, not even the ocean, like time had eroded away all her memories and left her stranded in a foreign land on foreign soil that she once used to know, felt between her toes and laid down on, smelt as it warmed under the sun.

Carlos combs his fingers through her hair as she stands with the ocean water lapping over her feet, staring out onto the horizon, wishing she had let him show her elsewhere, taken her away so her long dead heart wouldn’t feel this heavy.

“If you had seen the change,” he whispers above the breeze, the gentle roar of the waves, “It would have been better. I wanted to you to see. I’m sorry you didn’t get to.”

He holds her at night, just like that night, when they’re not hunting, when she’s shaking and hiccupping, tears hot on her cheeks, curls around her like a different sort of shackle, hand pressed against her chest like he could still feel her heart, feel it beating though it stopped long before he stumbled into her temple and claimed her for his own. She brings his hand to her mouth and kisses his palm, a careful benediction that’s more of a _thank you_  than forgiveness—maybe one day, there’s still time.  


	8. stay quiet - Carlos/Kisa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt _things you said that i wish you hadn’t_.

When Carlos comes back, he brings her stories—of his adventures, his scrapes, his near misses and close calls, of the outside world and the people in it, the things she cannot see. He whispers them in her ear after the carnage, after her performance and the mask is gone, face clean and stripped to soft silks covering her skin where he runs his hands down over her arms, lips pressed to her neck, under her ear.

(he is always careful— _her Carlitos—_ gentle, cautious, a different kind of worship but worship all the same, gasping _la reina, la diosa_ , but never her name, true and given)  

His stories stoke the fire in her, always burning; his stories make her mouth taste of ash and soot, like bitter poison, resentment building in her gut. She lives for his stories, she dies for his stories, no in between, no merciless relief.

“When you are free, I will show you the world and everything in it. I have so much to show you,” he says, stroking her hair back from the nape of her neck, running his fingers through— _he would kill you for this_ , she thinks, knowing Malvado never will.

( _I created my own torture when I created you_ , she thinks, but she lets Carlos lay his mouth on her, lets him hatch his plans that never come to fruition, lets him live every day out there while she’s still trapped inside, waiting)

“When will I be free?” she asks, tugging his arm around her and running her fingers across his palm, tracing his lifeline, his heartline.

“Soon,” he whispers in her ear.

She twists in his arms and meets his gaze, sees the promise and the lie reflected in the dark depths, the love and the idolatry all at once. She cups his face in her hand, watches as he closes his eyes, turns his mouth to kiss the heel of her palm and she feels herself begin to burn all over.


	9. identity -  Carlos/Kisa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt _beginning of their relationship._

Carlos teaches her his tongue, slow and careful, but she learns fast—or perhaps it was determination, practicing the phrases he gave her with brows drawn together, repeating them over again until she said it like him, until she gave it meaning.

She speaks it with a bitter taste, a bite around the words that never leaves, harsh and angry, like he hadn’t given her a gift but rather a curse she spat out of her mouth every time she spoke.

(He had wanted to ask her why, _¿por qué no quiere entender el uno al otro?_ —but her eyes stopped him, dark and unknowable, yet he wanted to sink into them and suffocate, die again for her; he knew the answer without speaking, like he knew he had to break her chains and bare his neck—they always understood each other.)

Carlos sits at her feet after he brought her back more conquistadors, wandering lost and looking for gold (she taught him how to feed, the bodies dropping by the count, both of them sharing in their blood- _-_ _their souls_ , she had told him, patting her hand over her heart,  _sus almas_ ). She strokes his hair, nails running along his scalp, humming a tune and whispering in a language he remembered at the edges of his mind, one he knew the meaning of somewhere he couldn’t reach.

“Why don’t you want to speak your mother’s tongue?” she asks, twisting his head to look at her. “Do you remember your mother?”

He remembered a woman who held him in his arms with soft skin and smelling of spices, of earth underneath, but she was  fading, just like the sound of the songs she sang in the same tongue and Carlos bit down, staring up at her—the goddess he chose—until he tasted his own blood, memories flooding his mind, searing across his vision.

Carlos stands and runs, disappears into the forest and stays there through three sunrises and sunfalls, hiding in a cave he found. He returns, like he always will, falling on his knees at her feet.

“Do you know who you are?” she asks.

“Do you?” he counters.

She didn’t have a name, his goddess, not one she could tell him—or wanted to.

She nods.  

She had chosen a name for herself, and he smiles when she tells him, the way she tells him, a purr softening the snap of her teeth.

 _Santánico Pandemónium_.


	10. I'll be with you through the dark - Carlos/Kisa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt _accidental baby acquisition_.

The infant takes to her, easier than Carlos would have thought ( _the young like animals have a sense about their kind, avoid them if they can, all instincts and self-preservation—smarter than most give them credit for_ ), but she gurgles happily in Santanico’s arms, tiny mouth stretching out into a toothless smile, rounding out her cheeks as Santanico coos at her, lends her her fingers to grip. The rest of the girls stand around eyeing their mistress curiously, warily, unsure of what to make of her early appearance, hiding in the crowd.

Santanico grins down at the infant, stroking down her small, soft nose and Carlos can see how her eyes are warm, features confounded with affection and he hates to ruin it.

“ _Mi amor_ , we cannot keep her.” He touches her shoulder and it tenses under his hand, her head turning—her eyes narrowed, slitted and golden. “This is no place to raise a child.”

“They shouldn’t have brought her in here. What kind of mother would bring her child in here?”she asks, voice sharp; it startles the infant and Santanico bounces her in her hands, bringing her up to her chest, holding her close. “Into the lion’s den. This pit of snakes.”

“They didn’t know, they were just traveling past—”

“It’s still a bar, Carlos.” She stares at him in a way that tells him to close his mouth and not open it until she tells him to, or she might claw his face off and stands up, hefting the baby on her shoulder and walking through the parting crowd.

She lets her go ( _of course she does, he isn’t sure why he worried, why it felt like it was strangling him around the throat to see her hold the child_ ), frightening her parents with vicious threats as she released them, slipping them out before another bloodbath began.

Carlos curls around her later, fitting himself behind her in her bed, arms going around her torso and hands pressing against her stomach, leaving a trail of kisses across the nape of her neck. She doesn’t cry, not like she used to, but her voice is thick, soft when she speaks.

“They stole that from me, too.”


	11. Bitter bite of loneliness - Carlos/Scott

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt _pet names_.

“Good job,  _mi hijo_ ,” Carlos says, sliding behind Scott without a sound and laying his hands on his shoulders, squeezing and releasing like Scott had seen on wrestling, but different—the coaches never got this close to their wrestler, Carlos pressed against his back, Carlos breathing out onto his cheek.

“You’re learning to not make such a mess.” He reaches over Scott’s shoulder, thumb brushing away the smear of blood at the corner of his mouth.

Scott bristles at the endearment, but bites down until his fangs recede—it’d be no good to tell Carlos to stop, that he’s not his son ( _I already had a father and you’re nothing like him_ , he thinks, but it’s a bitter thought, goes down like a pill too big and chokes him to remember the feel of the stake pressing into his chest, the way his father’s face twisted up and he reeked of fear;  _no, I never had a father_ —he guesses Carlos as good as any); Carlos would just grin and tip his chin up, tell him, but who made you,  _mijo_?

“Does it get any easier?” he asks instead, turning to get some space, facing Carlos and backing away. Carlos’s mouth twists, eyes flashing gold, but he keeps his feet still. “You know, feeding?”

Scott hates it. Tasting means seeing, no matter how he gets it. Blood bags are duller, more sounds than images, but he can still make out the memories, a constant reminder the blood belongs to a human through the memories that run through his head when he takes from them, tasing their soul, stealing pieces of their life—until he ends it and his head goes black.

That’s the worst part—the sudden blackness, feeling their heart stop; he hasn’t slept in weeks, haunted by the memories of others, the feeling of death under his skin.

“One day,” Carlos says, stepping forward and Scott lets him, keeps his feet in place and leans forward. Sometimes it’s nice, having Carlos there, Carlos solid and present, Carlos with his easy, creeping touches that are better than nothing. Better Carlos than alone—Scott thinks sometimes that’s why he helped him get out of the Twister, better Carlos than no one. “It won’t matter so much to you,  _querido_.”

Carlos presses a kiss to his temple, then lifts his face, hand under his jaw, fingers brushing his throat. “It’ll get easier when you stop caring.”


	12. The Loneliness & The Scream - Carlos/Scott

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt _things you said with no space between us_

The nights are cold, even colder beneath The Twister, more levels than Scott could figure out beneath the surface. He wondered why he even felt it at all, the chill nipping at his fingertips, toes and ears, shuddering through him and rattling his bones.

“We haven’t fed,” Carlos says, speaking aloud like Scott’s thoughts had been too loud and he couldn’t help but answer.

( _I can hear you_ , Carlos whispered to him once, cornering him against the wall, breath ghosting Scott’s neck because he wanted it to, _I can hear you like I can hear someone’s heartbeat, your thoughts an endless stream flowing from you to me—I made you, never forget._

Scott had wished he could, wished he could tear out the venom that had turned his blood and made him of Carlos, gave him another family line he never asked to be part of.)

Carlos moves closer until they’re pressed from shoulder to hip, their knees knocking as he curls to match Scott’s position. “You could try not to listen, once and a while,” Scott says, his shoulders cringing when Carlos slithers his arm around him, hooking it around his neck—Scott doesn’t shove away, too tired, too fucking hungry, the kind that gnaws and gnaws at his insides but doesn’t kill him. It’s been more than a week, he should have died of thirst by now, but he’s still here.

And so is Carlos.

“You’re mine, Scott,” he says, rubs his hand through Scott’s hair like a big brother would—or a father. He leans in close, their foreheads brushing and Scott lets his head hang, drop against Carlos’, leaning into him as his body sags. “It doesn’t work like that.”

“Did this happen with Santanico?” Scott asks, but not expecting an answer—the name always makes Carlos’ mouth screw up tight, jaw on lockdown.

But Carlos breathes a  _yes_  against his cheek, and presses dry lips to his temple, stroking down Scott’s hair.

 _Family history_ , he thinks, a laugh getting caught in his throat, a lump he can’t swallow down, _never had that before_.


	13. dream - Freddie/Richie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt _handholding_.

Freddie remembers his hands when he watches Richie, eyes away, back to Freddie, his shoulders broad hunched over a table, creating a shadow, his hands mapping out across a set of plans. They’re large, like the rest of him, long elegant fingers good at opening up safes and picking locks, maybe for taking people apart—there’s notes in his file that Freddie remembers with a shudder, crimes they could never pin on him, too clean, too perfect. Richie was always the meticulous one.

 _It wasn’t real_ , he tells himself, but the sensation of Richie’s fingers weaving around his still lingers, stroking across his palm, like an itch—a phantom tugging at him, leading him, guiding him.

(moonlight reflected on Richie’s glasses, setting his eyes off with an unnatural glow and there was a bloodstain over his gut, duct tape around his hand–not the Richie he knows now, a Richie dug up, unearthed, a Richie with Earl’s blood still on him, fingers smelling of gun oil; a bloody meeting—perhaps they were always meant to cross paths, one way or another, a funny way to start believing in fate)

“I had a dream about you,” Freddie tells him, not sure why, but it feels good to let it out, to set it free, stalling him in the hallway—caught between two spaces.

Richie smiles, languid and unfurling, halfway between amusement and a threat. “Was it a good one?”

(Richie’s hand was warm under his, sticky with blood, sticking to his skin, grip firm)

“Not particularly.”

His smile grows sharper, stepping close so Freddie has to look up, has to crane his neck to meet his eyes—blue, a pretense, false security, just like his straight-edged teeth. “Sweet dreams then, peacekeeper,” Richie breathes across the back of his neck as he moves past, leaving Freddie alone in the hall, electricity skimming the surface of his skin.


	14. I am singing now while Rome burns - Kate/Scott

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt _I am singing now while Rome burns. We are all just trying to be holy. My applejack, my silent night, just mash your lips against me. We are all going forward. None of us are going back._

It doesn’t feel like anything she had ever felt ( _maybe it shouldn’t, a kiss is just a kiss until it’s her brother’s mouth against her own, pressing in close as she opens up and let’s him inside_ ).

Kyle had been clumsy at first, an awkward mashing of lips that had smoothed out--practice under a pew in the back row, she remembers how hard the wood floor felt under her back, how the boards creaked, the scent of dust caught at the back of her throat.

Richie had been a graze, a near-miss that got too close and brushed at her mouth; she kissed him, but even now she can’t remember why, what had propelled her forward, it’s a dull buzz at the back of her mind, tucked into a dark corner.

Scott kisses like he’s done this before ( _she wanted to know who, unearth the secrets she never cared to know when he kept his door closed, locked, music pounding against the wood, shaking the house, but she didn’t think that was fair, not now, let him have something that’s not hers, theirs_ ), like he knows how his lips and tongue work, applying them to hers with an edge of desperation, too hard, sharp—she takes it and gives it back to him, fingertips pressing against his jaw.

( _It flip-flops in her stomach, like her heart has slid down from her chest and sits now in her hips, thudding and throbbing—she remembers what the bible had to say about this._ )

“Do you think they ever did this?” she asks, laying in the dark, eyes to the ceiling—she knows the answer, somewhere, she knows the truth, her own way of seeing.

Scott rolls over, throws his arm around her and tucks his face into her neck, nose trailing across her collarbone. “I don’t want to talk about them,” he mutters,  then drifts away, falling heavy at her side.

( _She wonders where they are sometimes, if they ever got where they were going—they left after, quick, Seth tugging his brother behind him, gun in hand, finger on the trigger, ready to blast his way through if anything stood in their way._ )

She let’s him drive—he’s gotten better—practice of a different kind, his hand on the wheel and foot on the pedals as she tells him how, where to go—and rests her head on his shoulder, staring at the endless stretch of road.

( _They buried their father in the desert with their own hands and two shovels—by the end she had felt dried out, baked in the sun, no more tears; they drove away and kept driving_.)


	15. too much to drink - Freddie/Richie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt _lonely_.

Freddie’s drink is tequila.

Richie wants to rib him, tell him what a cliche he is, but he can’t bring himself to do it as he shifts the empty bottles into the recycling bin, watching how they start to overflow.  _This isn’t like you, Ranger,_ he thinks, grabbing an empty box to start putting the excess in, _you’re supposed to keep us on the straight and narrow, how are you gonna do that liquored up all the time?_

“How much do you charge?” Freddie asks, rubbing his face as he pushes himself up on one elbow, sheets pooling low around his hips, leaving him bare to the waist. “For the maid service—can I call you for a turndown service as well.”

Richie laughs, dry and humorless, the sound cutting and razor sharp. Freddie startles, blinking at him, awake and sober in a breath. “You’re better than this shit, you know,” Richie says, tossing a bottle into the box and hearing it break, shatter—too much strength in his throw. “My old man, may he rot in hell, used to do this–only he’d get mean and swing at us. Good thing your wife kicked you out, huh?”

Freddie is quicker than Richie gave him credit for, even hungover and wrangling himself out of the sheets, able to leap across the room and go for Richie’s throat, hand clamping down as he rushes Richie back against the wall. “Don’t you ever—" Freddie gets caught on a breath, choking the next words out, “—ever suggest I’d do anything to hurt my little girl, are we clear?”

Richie smiles, gritting his teeth, bearing them as Freddie squeezes, lifting his chin to feel the burn of hand locked over his jugular–watching Freddie’s eyes blacken as his gaze gets set ablaze. “There’s the ranger I know,” he says, corner of his lip twisting and curling.

Freddie lets go in another breath, dropping his hands and staring up at Richie like he can’t quite believe him, an edge of disgust always coloring his features. Richie thinks it’s over when Freddie comes at him again, hands on his shirt collar, gripping hard as he yanks Richie down, dragging their mouths together. Freddie uses his tongue like a weapon, thrusting in his mouth, warm and slick, tasting sour as he moves his hands to grip the back of Richie’s neck.

“We need to stop doing this,” Richie says, when Freddie breaks for a breath Richie doesn’t need, letting Freddie pull him forward by the lapels of his suit jacket, leading him towards the bed. “You need to deal with your shit instead of drinking and fucking it away with me.”

Freddie grabs for his jaw, fingers digging into his cheek, rubbing the inside against Richie’s molars. “Shut the fuck up, Gecko,” he hisses out, leaning up to shove their mouths together again, his second kiss landing like a slap, hard and leaving his mouth stinging.  


	16. two-headed devil - Freddie/Richie/Seth

Freddie showers away the sweat and semen, dressing up neat and nice the way his mama taught him, and goes to confession afterwards, walking to the little catholic church down the road. Inside the booth, his tongue goes numb, feels thick and clumsy, he chokes on his breath when he inhales deep, swallowing past the lump in his throat.

( _it hits in flashes–the heat of Seth’s mouth around him, the way Richie’s low words crept and crawled into his head, slithering and writhing in his belly, the way their mouths collided over his shoulder, how they pulled apart with twin smiles, sharp as knives_ )

 _I’ve seen the devil_ , he tells the priest,  _and he has two heads_.


	17. Forget the horror here - Kate/Scott

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt _zombie apocalypse au_.

Kate’s hands are slick with sweat and the gun keeps slipping, her finger sliding down the slope of the trigger as her hands tremble.  _You have to do it, Katie-cakes_ , her dad said, his skin already paling, blood-loss stealing the color in his cheeks and the virus tinging his skin in blue,  _you can do it_ _._

She should have let one of the Geckos do it, it would have been quick and clean, no hesitation, one perfectly aimed shot to the head, neither of them standing in front of the writhing creature that used to be her dad and not doing anything, risking him breaking free, risking attack and infection because she can’t stop crying, can’t do what she promised ( _let it be family, Kate, let it be you—don’t let it be Scott_ _)_.

“I can’t,” she hiccups, swallowing around the hard lump in her throat. “I can’t do it.”

Scott’s hands reach around hers, not pulling the gun from her hands, but cupping them closer, fitting them properly to the grip (his hands are bigger, covering her completely and he hadn’t noticed, hadn’t noticed when her little brother’s hands had become bigger than her own, when he’d gotten so much taller than her that he can curl around her back and reach down her arms). “You can,” he says in her ear, voice firm, but thick, she can feel his tears dripping down her neck. “We can do it. Together.”

She promised, she promised to keep him away ( _you’re older, Kate, you have to look after him, you have to look after each other_ _)_ , but Scott wrapping around her, his hands on her stills the shaking and she can hold the gun straight, aim it at their father’s head.

“We’ll do it on a count of three, okay? Squeeze the trigger with me, Kate.”

She nods, not trusting her voice.

Scott doesn’t start counting, not all at once, his mouth presses against her temple, leaving a kiss there before he begins.

“One.”

“Two.”

“Three,” she finishes, the gun coming to life under her hands.


	18. You can't go home again - Kate/Scott

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt _she woke up in a cold sweat on the floor / next to a family portrait drawn when you were four / and beside a jar of two cent coins that are no good no more / she’ll lay it aside_.

_You can’t go home again_ , somebody said that, somewhere Kate can’t remember, but it sticks in her head for three months until she was sure she believed it–but with the road under her feet and the moon her only light and company, home is all she thinks to go.

(he’s waiting for her, sitting on the steps of the old creaky porch like when they would wait for the bus in the morning, but from the other side, night always a dull orange glow from the neighborhood streetlamp, a cool scent on the air–winter had come home with them, ghosts come to haunt an empty house full of memories to haunt them right back.

when he looks up at her, she expects his eyes to be golden, like the last time she saw them, but they’re black, like the night sky and she drops her bag with the few belongings she had stolen on the walkway and throws her arms around his neck, pressing her face against his cool skin.

he doesn’t hold her back, but she can feel his hands hovering near her body, like he might.)

Maybe Scott had the same idea, once he grabbed at his own freedom, the pair of them taken and taking themselves back, following familiar paths like a compass always points north.

(he holds her when she smashes the portrait later, arms wrapping around her like chains, holding her still as she struggles, as she screams, eyes burning and brimming with saltwater, an urge to see the smiling faces burn, scorch away the lie of a happy family, purge the secrets eeking out of her skin.

“don’t touch that,” he says, voice thick, harsh, a flash of the gold she remember after he sets her on the floor and she reaches for the shards, loose and disconnected from her body, hanging above herself, hovering close.

she wants to ask,  _would you eat me if i cut myself?_ wants to test it out, prick her finger and see if he would suck away the blood.

but scott sweeps away the sharp edges, like they were never there, and tucks the picture in a drawer where their mother kept her recipes.) 


	19. demon on my back - Kate/Scott

_I would never hurt you, Scotty_ , Kate croons.

Scott thinks he believes her, even with warm blood on her hands, leaving smears and fingerprints across his cheeks, the smell cloying at the back of his throat, making his fangs pop, uncontrolled; believes it when she dips her fingers into the wound of her latest victim and trails the blood around his lips, flattening his hair with her soaked hands.

 _A thank you_ , she says, mouth twisted to the side, and he shudders, remembering the holes in her, the way he tried to hold them closed with his hands, thinking about the venom and for once, showed some restraint at the wrong time,  _for saving my life._


	20. heat of you - Kate/Scott

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt _warmth_.

Kate has nightmares now.

(she used to sleep like the dead, near impossible to wake up, their mother trying to drag her out of bed in the morning until she couldn’t get out herself and it was Scott’s job, knocking on Kate’s door, yelling  _get your ass up, or we’ll miss the bus_ because their father wasn’t there and their mother was asleep–he liked it, that little chip in the perfection of his sister, one thing he was better than her about)

She sleeps more now and less, light sleep on the verge of waking for short blocks of time, dark circles growing under her eyes as her skin grows pale, washing her out, hair pulled out of her face in a messy bun—dark now, dyed back brown after that demon turned it red. Kate sleeps in his bed, curled up under the covers, her face pressed against his pillow, until her breathing evens out and her heart beat slows—he waits and listens, stands guard perched in a chair in the corner of the room, unable to make himself leave.

(they stuck around, though she begged him to go, still begs him to go, but Scott doesn’t know where they could go when hell’s still on the loose, safer here than anywhere else— _I hate them_ , she whispers to him at night, tears hot on his neck,  _it’s all their fault_ ; he doesn’t argue, but swallows hard)

Her scent lingers long after she’s gone, Scott urging her to take a shower, like deja vu—home alone with his mother, bartering and dealing, _I’ll wash the dishes if you get dressed—_ Kate harder and easier, a well-placed _please_  making her fold. He lays in the heat she left behind, listening to the water running, counting down the seconds to know when it’s been too long.


	21. i went dancing with my sister - Kate/Scott

Scott touches her in soft, careful ways that make her feel delicate, like he taking pains not to handle her too much in case she might break, aware of his strength and choosing to ghost his fingers across her skin and forgoing the pressure. “Are you sure?” he asks, words stunted, like they’re tripping over themselves out of his mouth. “I don’t want to hurt you—I mean, it doesn’t always hurt, but I have to, you have to—” 

Kate rushes up to kiss him and breaks the skin of her lip on his teeth; Scott groans and licks her lip, but tugs back, breathing into her mouth but not any closer, her blood smeared across his lips.

(It’s been there before, bolder and redder, dripping down his chin; she wants to laugh at him— _I don’t want to hurt you_ —thinking of the healing marks on her wrist, the scars on her shoulder, how his fangs felt sinking in—white-hot and sudden—how it couldn’t be any worse than that, it couldn’t be any better.) 

"Come on, just do it," Kate says, pulling him close again, her fingers stroking the scales that have erupted across the back of his neck. 


	22. champion - Kate/Kisa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt _kiss on the forehead_.

Her lips are cool, cooler than any lips she had ever felt ( _cooler than her father’s dry kisses on her cheek, than her mother’s wet press against her temple, both fading to memory, ghost sensations to haunt her at the back of her mind, throbbing in her knees as she kneels at a different altar, for goddess not of her father’s teaching_ ); her mouth presses against her brow like a wet cloth over her forehead that feels too hot, her lipstick tacky, sticking to her skin when she pulls away.

Her cold hands cup around Kate’s face, under her jaw as she tilts her head up, eyes cast on hers—they’re brilliant and gold, the kind of eyes she remembers from dreams ( _or nightmares, she never could decide, never could make up her mind—angel or demon, it didn’t matter, in the end_ ).

She smiles, teeth bared, but not sharp, a warmth inside rising up to turn her eyes molten as her fingers comb through Kate’s hair, letting the strands fall across her shoulders.

“Thank you, _pequeñita_ ,” she says, like she might mean it, like it might be enough for what it cost, rubbing her thumb across her forehead, smearing the red of her lipstick over her pale skin.


	23. heart & home - Kisa/Richie/Seth/Vanessa

_The bed is too small_ , Vanessa thinks, listening to the creaking of the springs, the give in the rod-iron; they needed something sturdier, bigger, to hold all this weight.

Santanico nestles against her left side, burrowed under Vanessa’s arm, face tucked against her throat, sleeping still with her hand resting over Vanessa’s chest, fingertips brushing Seth’s arm wrapped over them both. Richie and his long arms reach around Seth, pressing his brother closer her her body, face against the back of his neck, their legs knotted and tangled, pressing them closer together with a hand on her hip, fingers brushing Santanico’s bare skin.

It’s a wonder she can breathe, swaddled in the middle, it’s a wonder they fit at all.

( _my name’s Kisa_ , Santanico tells her at breakfast ~~—~~ it’s seven at night, but that’s breakfast now, she and Seth picking up their nocturnal rhythm—reaching for her hand and tracing the length of lifeline, embedded deep in her palm,  _but I don’t feel like a Kisa anymore_

she stils; Vanessa has learned to let her have breathing room, watching as she lifts her eyes to hers ~~—~~

Seth curses, and Richie laughs, loud and hearty in a way that feels less rare, these days, both of them too big, too loud for her tiny apartment, but she doesn’t startle, keeps holding Vanessa’s eyes as she presses their palms together;

 _I like it here,_  she says, and Vanessa can’t deny that she does too, likes the way they make her apartment feel too full, no more empty spaces)


	24. waves - Kisa/Richie

The water is still warm, even under the moonlight—the day’s heat hadn’t left it yet, not like the sand, cool under the soles of her feet, slick and sticking between her toes as she lets the water lap at her, the coastline ebbing and receding back, the night wind tangling her hair.

“I’ve never seen this ocean before, “ she says, glancing over her shoulder at Richard, standing hesitant on the sand behind her, a shadow at her back she’s grown used to over the weeks, silent and ever present. “My family—” she swallows, throat still tight after all these years “—we never made it this far east.”

Richard shuffles across the sand to her side, sliding his feet into the ocean beside hers. Strange to see him this way, collar undone, his pants and sleeves rolled up, the breeze lifting strands of his hair left loose, glasses gone–for a moment, she thinks she has enough in her to unravel him, take him apart layer by layer, see what’s inside, but she’s been inside his head and Richard still has yet to make sense to her.

“I’ve never seen the coast from this side of the border. Seth would’ve—” He says, and stops himself, ducking his head, jaw tightening under his cheek.

Her hand raises, as if to touch him, but stalls, faltering on where— _hold his hand, grabs his shoulder, stroke his chee_ k—she can’t think of what would be welcome, if any, not from her.

“Do you think he found his beach?” she asks, unable to stop herself, words flying off her tongue unbidden, quicker than she could catch them.

Richard gasps, then laughs as he exhales, thick and raw, a rough broken sound. “No,” he says, shaking his head, burying his feet under the mud. “Geckos are never lucky enough to get what we want.”

She doesn’t touch him and Richie slides his hands into his pockets, out of reach, eyes cast down as he watches the water wash back the sand from the tops of his feet, unburying him as the silence lingers between them, palpable as a heartbeat.

“Let’s go,” she says, a soft command, finality heavy in her voice. “It’s just not the same without the sun.” 


	25. freedom - Kisa/Richie/Vanessa

Vanessa didn’t expect it would be Richie to bust her out—she should have known Seth wouldn’t risk it, she knew that the moment she raised her gun to the officer’s head, knew it the moment she surrendered to the ranger with kind eyes and soft lies; she knew who she married. But Richie comes for her with strange eyes, flashing gold as his skin ripples, blood dripping from his mouth, he comes with a dark-haired woman at his side, staring at Vanessa like she can see right through her skin, gaze incisive, slicing through into her mind, her chest, her guts—she shudders as Richie grabs her hand, picks her up from the floor.

“You alright?” he asks, his voice smooth and familiar; he wipes away the blood on his shirtsleeve, and Vanessa remembers the photos the ranger showed her, the women with no eyes and feels her gut clench. “I can’t  _believe_  my brother would sink this low.”

Vanessa laughs, the sound catching, noticing for the first time the absence of Seth—the woman to Richie’s left, but no one on his right but empty space.

She swallows. “I’m fine.”

 

 

The woman crawls into the backseat with Vanessa, slithering between the seats, stepping over the console while Richie drives them, speeding away. She shifts close, moving into Vanessa’s space peering at her in the dark with large, fathomless eyes, her fingers stroking Vanessa’ hair back from her face, tucking the strands behind her ears.

“You don’t have to be afraid,” she says, tipping Vanessa’s chin up with her fingers. “Those memories of yours are lies. Richard isn’t a monster.”

Vanessa laughs again, trembling as he continues to stroke her hair–the woman’s fingertips are cool; Vanessa hasn’t forgotten the way their eyes had glowed, the blood on Richie’s mouth, the way his skin was scaled then not–hasn’t forgotten the women without eyes, carved out with delicate precision. “Then what is he?”

She cups Vanessa’s face, eyes on hers like she could make Vanessa understand with a glance, eyes glowing in the passing headlights. “He’s Richard,” she says. “And I’m Santanico.”

 

 

It’s easy slipping into bed with them—Vanessa too tired to think much of it, sliding between the sheets beside Richie, like rewinding her life, going back to when Seth was in prison and she wasn’t, when Richie took up space in her apartment and her bed. Richie pulls her close to him, Santanico curled up, already dozing against his back; his skin isn’t as warm as she remembers, cold like something died.

Vanessa brushes her fingertips across his brow, wondering where his glasses were, what happened to him. “Where’s Seth?” she asks, so quiet she’s not certain she said it out loud, until he shudders, his eyes reddening, becoming wet.

“He got what he wanted,” he says, and something pricks as Vanessa’s eyes.

She leans up and presses a kiss to his forehead, then tucks her head under his chin. “If he’s gone, then I don’t think Seth knows what he wants,” she says against the skin of Richie’s throat.


	26. payback - Kisa/Seth

Richie was never a great con, nervous smile and flimsy lies, shaking out his cards with trembling hands ( _lies never came as easy as harsh truth–Richie’s tongue wasn’t silver, but serrated steel_ ); he surrendered when Seth said they should go in without him, Santanico watching him close, but there was no bitterness left, not a trace, just as long as they followed his plans, Richie was content, maybe almost happy.

Santanico ( _Kisa_  thrums in his head) falls into his rhythm easy, curling her arm around his, fingers gripping his bicep as she leans in close, slipping on the role like a second-skin, quicker than him, quicker than a switch, smiling at him and looking at him with moon-doe eyes so large and black, he almost could believe she liked him.

( _so what do I call you now?_  he asked, after, the lights still fizzling, sparking every few breaths; she kept staring at the pile of dust at her feet, fingers toying with the end of her hair, teeth sunk into the red of her bottom lip– _whatever you like_ , she said, locking her eyes on his, dark and fathomless,  _I don’t care_

 _Kisa_ , he thought, wanting to run his tongue around it, see how it fit this new feeling in his chest, how he saw her now, a couple layers exposed;  _whatever you say, sweetheart_ , he said, tucking loose sooty strand behind her ear, tracing the metal snake curled around the edge that guarded her skin)

She tugs on his collar when she kisses him, pulling him against her into a dark alcove by the stairs, away from prying eyes of the cops, suits that looked a lot like goddamn FBI–it’s not sweet, but it is soft, a demanding gentleness that shivers across the back of his neck in white-hot sparks, her tongue curling against his as he breathes into her breathless mouth, cheek cool under his palm.

She rubs away the red stain left on his lips, his chin when she pulls back. “Close call,” Seth says against her thumb.

Her mouth twists; her eyes flash, black to gold. 

“I owed you one.”


	27. a con - Kisa/Seth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt _fake dating_.

She doesn’t dress up this time (or anymore, it’s been weeks since Seth had seen her in a dress, wonders if she even owns one now), jeans and thick-knitted sweaters, her hair braided loosely, strands falling around her face, dust on her boots, makeup smudged around her eyes, rougher around her edges she had always carried with her shoulders back and spine straight.

(she looks a bit like Vanessa, like this, in certain lights, hitting him all of a sudden, strange and striking hard in his gut)

 _It’s fine_ , Richie says, straightening his tie when Seth asks,  _she looks better next to you, at any rate—_

(he remembers when Seth first saw them together, up on the stage, fitting together like two slick pieces of art as the snake bit into her throat, then again at the restaurant, her leather dress a match to his dark suit, paired up neat and tidy, stunning, for a moment, just the sight)

_—more believable._

Seth knows all about looking believable, so he trades his suit in for jeans of his own, a soft gray knit shirt that fits close to his skin. They walk together as Richie follows a hundred feet behind, sliding into his escalade as Seth opens up the creaking door to his red charger, helps her inside, cool fingers brushing his cheek as thank you. Inside, she takes his hand, curls their fingers together, laced together as he turns the ignition.

“Ready, sweetheart?” he asks, smooth and easy, sliding into the role.

She smiles, sharp as always, dark eyes flickering to life.

“Sure, honey.” 


	28. chew me up - Kisa/Seth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt _things you said through your teeth_

Santanico shoves him against a wall—not her full strength, all his bones intact, nothing shattered or split.  _Going soft on me_ , he thinks, feeling his mouth twist as she snarls, fangs and full-faced scales, into his face, hand pressing down on his windpipe, claws breaking skin.

(It makes his blood run hot and gets him a little hard—he wonders if she can smell it on him, see it in his fucking head, how he thinks of Richie shoving him to kiss him when Seth riled him past words or Vanessa pushing him back against the door that first and last time, if she knows, sees it reflected in his eyes rather than needing to dig her way under his skin.)

“Gonna kill me,  _señorita_?” he chokes out, jaw tight, his vision going hazy at the edges. “Well, fucking get on with it. I don’t have all day.”

Santanico releases him then, lets go like she had just remembered he was diseased and contagious, wiping her hands on her pants like that’s enough to get rid of the taint. “I’m not going to kill you,” she says, scales receding, red-painted mouth quirked to the side, eyes guarded but softened with false modesty, gazing at him with lowered lashes. “Someone’s going to someday, but it’s not going to be me.”

Seth runs his hand down his throat, wincing at the bruising, smearing the wetness to his collarbone. “Promise to my brother, no doubt.” He laughs, ragged and sharp. “Tell Richie I don’t need his protection, not anymore. Dad’s dead and I’ve outgrown it.”

Santanico clicks her tongue and shakes her head. “Tell him yourself.” Her eyes flick open wider as she cocks her head to the side, grin growing broader so he can see her teeth, pristine white against the red of her lips. “Unless you’re too scared to show your face. After all, this is all your fault.”

Seth hadn’t had to move that fast in a while and his bones creaked, his muscles ached like he sprained something using the momentum to lend weight to pin her back across the alleyway, arm across her throat. “This is not my fault,” he spits into her face that remains unchanged, only grows in amusement. “If you hadn’t _fucked with his head_ , then he’d be here with me.”

Santanico reaches up and presses her hand to the side of his face, careful and gentle. Seth watches her expression shift, softer staring straight at him, but her eyes distant like she was looking at him but not, pulled inside like Richie used to get sometimes and it makes Seth’s stomach turn.

“You never did listen to him, did you?”

Seth drops his arm.


	29. bandage - Kisa/Seth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt _heal_.

The gauze is familiar in her hands, dry woven cloth that brushes through her fingers as she wraps a long strip around Seth’s forearm, tight enough to apply the right pressure, loose enough not to cut off circulation—least she could do, though the action feels heavy, weighing down on her chest, aching and still fresh, Seth’s eyes on her; looking at her, looking through her.

(Manola used to look at her like that, waiting for her to speak, always waiting, patient and steady, exchanging blood for Kisa’s cool hands on her throat, cleaning the holes she made, taping gauze to Manola’s skin, change bandages and checking for infection— _least she could do_ )

Kisa doesn’t ask about the scars that litter his arm, the one stained with ink, or the still pink puncture wounds at his wrist, the raised skin at his throat, under the space where the flames lick at his neck, doesn’t ask about the scar toughened skin, layer upon layer, torn open and healed harder. She tasted it on her tongue, a bit of his soul still replaying in her mind, his memories blending into hers.

( _Richie with a mouthful of blood, Richie small and young covering her with his body, Richie with a dog, Richie smiling, the way prison felt, claustrophobic and suffocating, his anger as hot as hers, just not as ancient, the way the needle felt like fangs, sinking into her skin, burning as the heroin hit_ )

Kisa runs tape along the edge of the gauze, keeping it closed, keeping it secure, looking up to meet his eyes, holding for a moment. “You’re secrets are safe with me,” she tells him, fingers circling the marks she didn’t leave, still fresh, still healing. “I promise.”

Seth grins, mouth a little sharp, but genuine, a warmth flooding his eyes.

“Thanks, princess,” he says, the nickname not smarting in the same way as he leans forward and presses his lips against her forehead, leaving a kiss as he pulls back just as quick, getting to his feet.

 _You taste like cinnamon_ , she thinks as he turns his back and walks away, licking the corner of her mouth, hands moving to pack up the first aid kit.


	30. you're knocking at my windows - Kisa/Vanessa

Vanessa fits Santanico’s fingers around the gun, molds them to get the right grip, straightens her wrist; she’s warm across her back, like the sun beating down but more alive, heart pounding through her ribs, the scent of he blood hot under her perfume—Santanico bites back her fangs and suffers how her throat goes dry. 

"Let’s rob a bank," Santanico says, licking her lips. 

Vanessa laughs, heavy in her ear, and the sound travels down, kicks under her chest. “Maybe after you learn how to shoot.”


	31. You could be my luck - Richie/Seth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt _girl!Richie/girl!Seth_.

Richie fits her fingers through Seth’s, a finger between two of hers, fitting their hands together like teeth on a zipper while they sit at the edge of the school office. Seth  grins at her, tucking her messy hair behind her ear. There’s blood on her teeth, on her lip, her chin, smeared across her  forehead and Richie traces the scrapes on her knuckles, rubs at her swollen fingers ( _it’s not bad_ , she had said when they called her to the office and she found Seth, slumped on a plastic chair, hair tangled and matted, shirt torn,  _you should see the other guy_ ).

“You shouldn’t get into fights,” Richie whispers, staring at the linoleum tiles, the places where they weren’t fit together right, leaving crooked cracks between the large squares. “It’s not worth it. I can’t keep talking around Uncle Eddie and why he won’t come in and conference about you.”

“I’m almost sixteen,” Seth says, leaning against her side, resting her head on Richie’s shoulder. “You’re almost past sixteen. Fuck school. We don’t have to be here anymore and I don’t have to see their stupid fucking mugs anymore.”

Richie sighs, but doesn’t shrug her off, let’s her toy with her fingers now left in her grasp. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. Maybe you could try not planting your fist in their faces and—”

Seth sits up, reaching with her other hand to grip Richie’s chin, turning her face to meet her eyes. “I did it for  _you_ ,” she hisses. “You don’t want to hear what they said, what they’re always saying. I don’t want you to, so I took care of it. You could say thank you.”

Her gut twists looking at her sister’s face, fierce and determined, anger in her eyes but there’s a fondness warming underneath and tries not to think how it was for her, how Seth makes people bleed and how Seth bleeds for her. It makes her throat tight, constricting and she can’t say anything, not thank you, not you don’t have to, not spill her secrets and tell her how she’s not the only one.

“The principal will see you now,” a voice says.

It takes Seth a moment to drop her hand from her face, another for Richie to look away, meeting the eyes of the office attendant, looking back and forth between her and Seth like she caught them doing something more inappropriate.

They’re holding hands when they stand up, and don’t let go.


	32. I was set alight - Kisa/Vanessa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt _my body was bruised and I was set alight, but you came over me like some holy rite, and although I was burning, you’re the only light_

Santanico is quick to accept her offering, cool, long fingers clasping her forearm, around the back of her hand, thumb pressed in the center of of her palm–Vanessa glances up, locking eyes with Seth watching from the rearview mirror when Santanico’s fangs sink in, a stinging bust of pain that burns, forces her breath through her clenched teeth, breathing through it until it lessens, like the sudden jab of a needle smoothing out to a surreal sucking sensation, Santanico’s mouth warming over her skin as she feeds.

They should have stopped, Vanessa knew, had told Seth to pull off the highway and let them out, but once his flight instinct had kicked in, it got his foot riding hard on the gas pedal, left them speeding down the empty road like he was still trying to outrun what they had long since left in their dust.

(One of Seth’s hands had dropped off the steering wheel and reached towards Richie curled in the passenger’s seat, and he turned it palm up, wrist exposed–Richie was slow to take it, but he did, tangling his fingers through his brother’s as his mouth descended, teeth sinking into Seth’s skin–easy solution; two humans, two culebra, simple math, really.)

Santanico breaks off with a gasp, lips painted red with Vanessa’s blood, her lipstick smeared off on Vanessa’s skin around the fresh wound. Santanico covers the mark with cloth she tears away from the hem of her t-shirt, pressing down to staunch the flow, holding tight to Vanessa’s arm as she leans in close, running her tongue over her lips, lapping up the excess blood when their foreheads touch.

Vanessa’s head goes light, spinning and for a moment, she swears she sees stars in the depths of Santanico’s eyes, glittering up through the darkness and she can’t help staring, transfixed.

Santanico runs the pads of her fingers over the side of Vanessa’s face, stroking down the slope of her cheekbone, rubbing up the slant of her jaw. “I’m sorry they hurt you,” she says, cupping her hand under Vanessa’s jaw, her thumb circling over the rapid flutter of Vanessa’s pulse. “No one should have touched you.”

(Vanessa never rests well in the day, sleeps fitfully, turning over in the motel bed in the room they got when Seth knew he couldn’t run anymore, the light breaking the horizon, giving him new reason to panic.  _Day terrors_ , she had begun to call them, bad dreams that jolt her awake, sweat dampening her clothes, soaking the back of her neck, old and fresh memories intermingling and coming to lay roost in her head.

That day she dreams of an old foster home, an old foster father who would knock her around sometimes when she got to lippy, dreamt of the night he crawled over her in the twin bed they loaned out to her, breath sour and stinking, making her gag–but before it could play out, with her knee shooting up between his legs and her running as he writhed on the floor, he was yanked up by familiar hands that grabbed him by the head and twisted until the crack hit hard in her chest, and Santanico dropped him to the floor like a crumpled napkin.

Vanessa opens her eyes to Santanico staring down at her like she had in her head, crouched above her in the bed, hand reaching towards her hair, combing it back with her fingers.

“Rest,” she whispers, the hissing lisp a strange comfort, like the flash of gold in her eyes, smooth feel of her scaled palm across her brow. “No more bad dreams when I’m around.”)


	33. room service - Richie/Seth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt _threatening the pizza delivery guy._

When they get back stateside (after years— _a decade_ , Seth had told Richie, the whine of annoyance in his tone, _a fucking decade, brother_ —enough time to pass so their names will be dusty, a distant memory and if anyone was looking for them, they’d be looking for men who should be graying, more wrinkles on their faces than either of them have now, looking ten years younger than they should), the first thing Seth does is order a pizza.

“I thought we should eat in tonight,” he says, grinning—there was always something ferocious about Seth’s grin, but Richie thinks it’s worse now, something wild behind his eyes that Richie had put there, gave him the snap to his teeth, the flash of gold where there should only be deep brown.

Richie sighs and rolls his eyes, turning towards the motel bed. “Don’t make too much of a mess.”

Seth gets in his path, laying his hands on his chest, curling his hands in Richie’s shirt. “Aren’t you going to join me, brother?” He lets go of the cloth, smooths it out with his palms, staring up with his chin tipped and eyes half-mast. “Aren’t you hungry?”

Richie can’t help himself but to reach out and cup his hand around the side of Seth’s face, trace his thumb down the edge of his cheekbone. “Clean up after yourself, alright?”

Seth’s mouth flattens to a line. “I always do.”

At least it’s not some teenager that knocks on their door, but he’s still young—college student, maybe, delivering pizzas to get by—a bit on the scrawny side when Seth drags him inside, the pizza box falling to the ground.

“Thank you for your fast service,” Seth tells him, leaning his face against the pizza boy’s, scaled and his fangs bared, panting against the boy’s skin—Richie can see him trembling from his spot on the bed, smell the stench of fear smothering the air in the room and he wants tell Seth to stop, never understood why he loved this, the hunt, playing with his food ( _the fear makes them taste better_ , he told him once, and Richie hadn’t wanted to hear more; Richie knew—the fear always made the blood richer, taste stronger, pump better into his mouth).  

Seth tugged the boy’s head back by his hair, scraping his fangs against his throat. “I would give you a tip, but, ah, well,” he says, mouth opening wide and his fangs driving in—Richie can smell the blood  and it makes his mouth water, throat grow dry. Their strange hunger that’s also thirst, a feeling that leaves them empty and desperate, just the scent of blood could make them frenzied, turn them vicious and wild. Richie swallows and locks his jaw.

But Seth would never let him starve himself and he brings the boy to him, still clinging to life, eyes glazed and focus hazy, but they stare at Richie when Seth bares his throat to him, exposes the open wound he made, deep and gory and red, filling Richie’s nostrils with nothing but his scent, makes the blood drip on his closed mouth.

“Come on, brother, let’s share.” Seth pulls his eyes from the boy’s to his, golden in a way he’d grown used to, his tan skin now tan scales, rough and bumpy along the edge of his brow, mouth red and fangs jutting out of his mouth—he’d done this, made his brother this because Seth had asked and Richie could refuse him nothing.

Richie bites over the wound the shape of Seth’s mouth and feels the blood run thick over his tongue, tries to focus on the taste— _mint_ ; new, and he wouldn’t know what it means—and ignore the images rolling through his mind, a life that wasn’t his flashing before his eyes as the boy’s heart pounded in his head until it stopped and everything went black.

Seth takes  the  corpse from him, drops it on the floor and Richie would have yelled at him,  _watch the fucking blood, watch the fucking rug_ —but Seth had crawled on top of him and shoved him back against the headboard, face fading back to the one he’s known all his life, imprinted in his head as his brother’s face, but his mouth was still blood, red dripping off his chin.

He kisses him with his bloody mouth on Richie’s, groaning against him like he was still hungry—Richie groans, too, likes the taste better when it’s from Seth’s lips. Seth’s hands curl in the collar of Richie’s shirt and his hips fall on Richie’s as he settles on his thighs. “I knew you were hungry,” he whispers, licking the length of Richie’s bottom lip. “Always gonna take care of you, brother.”

“And don’t worry, I’ll clean up the mess.”


	34. I could hunt you like a killer - Richie/Seth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt _I could hunt you like a killer, with open arms like holy healers_.

Santanico doesn’t ask where he disappears to, taking off for days at a time.

(Richie asked her once, if it was because she was still in his head, rooting around for answers; she shook her head, stroking her hands down his cheeks, cupping his jaw, “I don’t need to be in your head to know things, Richard,” she had said, turning his head and brushing her mouth across a cheek, thumb rubbing away the imprint of her lipstick before letting him go.)

He slips away while her back is turned, or her eyes are closed, never while she is looking, not when she can see him go, slipping out like a straying lover. Richie’s saving that, the time when she’s watching to turn his back and leave; he’s not sure for when—a rainy day maybe—but he knows it will be the last time and he won’t be coming back.

Richie chases a cold trail until it gets warmer, listening to the clenching in his gut, trusting his instincts, closing his eyes and scenting the wind—he always finds his way to Seth, finds his way back like other people find their way home. It’s always different, each time he gets in the car, new direction because Seth’s always moving, never stays in one place too long, never settling like Richie told him to.

_Paradise doesn’t exist, Richard_ , he said the last time Richie found him, when Richie turned his back—he wondered if Seth was getting used to the sight, getting familiar with him walking away— _I was chasing a pipe dream when I ran us down here and look what it got me._

_Fucking nothing._

( _Find El Rey, yet, brother?_

It was the first time he found him, picking him up off the street where he’d fallen, drunk off his ass and stumbling on uneven pathways.

Seth fell into him easy like it hadn’t been weeks, like they never separated, leaning on him heavy, pressing his face against Richie’s neck and smelling sour, like sickness and grief.

_Been to plenty of beaches, but didn’t stick around, didn’t see the point_.)

He follows Seth down a street in Durango, falling into sync with his steps, pacing himself so he stays a few feet behind to watch him, to focus himself through the bustle of other bodies to pick up the sound of his heartbeat, the exhale of his lungs, hold onto his scent through the haze of the city air, cut through the grime and the sweat of bodies, blood pumping under their skins to get at Seth and hold on.

Richie doesn’t know he’s being led until Seth turns a corner into an alleyway and he finds himself being herded back against a building. Seth shoves into him before Richie could pounce, hands grabbing for his collar and yanking Richie down to press their mouths together, quick and harsh, more teeth than lips, like Seth’s trying to bite at his mouth and taste blood, like he’s the one with a hunger for it.

(It always ends up here, their bodies colliding like it’s the only thing they were made to do, smash into one another and find a way they can fit together, searching for notches that must be there, that should exist because they’re halves of a whole, and Richie knows there’s got to be a way to lock themselves together so they can never break apart, that’s not sewing up their skin and hoping they won’t bleed too bad when they tear themselves in two.)

Richie rolls him around and slides his hands under his shirt, pushing up against the wall with his palms under his ribs, pushing between his thighs as Seth groans, panting against his mouth as Richie feels his heart like it’s pounding in his hand.

“You should stop drinking,” he says, running his tongue over his bruised mouth, lips reddened and swollen, tasting his blood brought so close to the surface through the thin skin under the stale tequila.

“Shut the fuck up, Richie.”


	35. Soul meets body - Richie/Seth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt _daemon au_.

It’s said that Richie Gecko doesn’t have a daemon.

(Alba settled early, after Richie’s first growth spurt, she settled as his limbs began to ache. She settled small, a practical shape, nothing either of them had imagined, but Seth had breathed out slow, grateful she hadn’t become a dog like their dad’s daemon was.

Richie begged her to reconsider, holding her in his hand, stroking over her spines.

“I like this one. It feels…  _right_ ,” she said, shifting from palm to palm, tiny enough to fit in one hand. “It’s done anyway, no use trying to change it.”

Seth had watched him sigh and bring her up to rest on his shoulder, his teeth worrying at his lip.)

Which is a load of shit, in Seth’s humble opinion—like a person could exist without a daemon, and Richie’s still walking, still breathing. It helps, though—the legend preceding them, gives them an edge when most people are scared of Richie, got a reputation for being dangerous and unpredictable without having to build it. Sometimes Seth thinks it’s cool, the way the story spreads, blowing his brother out of proportion, drawing him in lines more myth than man, but he doesn’t like the way people look at him at times, makes his fingers twitch and reach to touch his gun, like Richie’s defective and not entirely whole, a monstrosity for lacking something they’ve got.

(Luce had settled not long after, Seth following Richie like he had his whole life, ever since he came into this world ten months later. It felt right.

Richie had stroked over her back, running his fingers up her tail in a way that felt white-hot under Seth’s skin, shuddery reverberating down his spine as Luce wound around Richie’s legs, nudging her face against his calf.

“It’s not fair,” he said.

Luce settled at his feet, peering up at him with unblinking, wide green eyes. “A housecat is not a particularly fearsome creature, Richard,” she told him, cocking her head.

“You’re still a  _predator_.”

Luce’s fur had ruffled, fluffing up as her back arched and ears flattened. “That’s not all that matters.”

Seth had held Alba close to his mouth, rubbing the pads of his fingers against her soft, vulnerable underbelly. “If it’s any consolation, I like you just fine.”)

Richie keeps Alba in his jacket pocket, nestled close to his heart and Seth thinks that’s got to count for something, even if he hides her. “At any rate, it’s safer,” he tells him, running his hand down the front of his suit. “She’s too small and you know how jobs can be.”

Seth doesn’t argue because it’s sound fucking logic, but  he can’t help the way his mouth twists downwards and makes Luce’s throat rumble, like she might growl if she opened her mouth.

(Seth caught him sometimes, sprawled in bed and naked to the waist, Alba a small pile of dark brown needles on his chest. He’d whispered low to her, stuff Seth couldn’t hear, but it felt like settling, like something locking into place.

Richie had been early, but in a lot of ways, he’d been late.)

“I don’t hate her, you know,” Richie says in the car, Alba free from the confines of his jacket and perched on the edge of Richie’s knee. “I never did.”

Seth doesn’t look at him, but reaches to brush his fingertips back over Alba’s spines, then reaches up to cup his hand over the back of Richie’s neck, thumb stroking over the corner of his jaw.

“I know.”


	36. Thunderstorms on the inside - Richie/Seth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt _werewolf au, full moon issues_.

When Seth wakes, the first thing he notices is how fucking rancid his mouth tastes, like something died, thick and gamy on his tongue, drying at the back of his throat. There’s pressure between his teeth like something got lodged there, stuck between the molars, painful like not having brushed his teeth the night before and scrub away the bits and pieces.

_The night before._ It comes back to him in pieces, strange colorblind flashes that never make much sense—the wolf has his own language,  _hunt, kill, run_ ; anything else seems beyond him, instincts in place of emotions, acting without much thought.

(Seth had told Richie once, what it felt like—he tried to laugh, make light, _what’s the difference from before?_  he asked, but then Seth jumped on him, pinned him to the floor, a snarl on his lips and the wolf rushed to the surface— _bite, pack, mate_ ; Seth recoiled, falling on his ass away from Richie, watching as he sat up panting, eyes huge and bright behind his glasses, smelling him sharp and inviting, and told him,  _the difference is, I have some self-restraint_ _._ )

He tries to move, but that’s when the pain starts, shooting through his body like he slept wrong, slept twisted, leaving knots and kinks in his body where they shouldn’t be—or his limbs are numb, useless pieces of  flesh that had fallen asleep and pick like a thousand fucking needles when he tries to curl a different way on the ground. The grass underneath him sticks to his bare skin, warm from his body but wet in the early morning dew. He can smell the dirt, layers of it, pick out different minerals and toxins in this trippy way that barely begins to make sense—he can tell them apart, but doesn’t have a name for most of them.

Seth smells blood, but he realizes it’s him that’s covered, dried around his mouth, dark and sticky down his throat. It all comes back to him—he made a kill, some deer that had wandered into his path; he took its throat out before it had a chance to run, blood hot in his mouth as he bit down, snapped its neck.

His stomach churns as he gags, rolling over to puke in the grass.  After its over, stomach empty of raw deer meat, he scoots away from the mess, sitting up and holding his aching head between his hands, resting his forehead on his knees, folding himself up close, shivering in the cool morning air. Seth isn’t sure how long he waits, a few heartbeats maybe before Richie comes, hears him a few yards away, sneakers squeaking through the wet grass. The blanket he drops over his shoulders is warm and woolen, and Richie is sturdy to hold onto as he helps him up, half-picking him off the ground as he stands on wobbly, coltish legs, weak like a fucking newborn.

“You ran further than usual,” Richie says, slowing his pace to match Seth’s uneasy steps, holding him up with his arm around his shoulder—Seth leans into him, running his nose along his collarbone;  Richie always smells clean, a sharp freshness that brings to mind starting over, renewal, earthy like the muddy beginnings of spring (the wolf says  _brother, pack, mate_ , rumbling under his skin). “I was worried—fuck, sometimes I worry you’ll run too far and I won’t find you.”

“Then I’ll find you, brother.” Seth grins up at him, thinks it much look awful, bits of his kill smeared over his teeth, mouth outlined in blood. “Got your scent now.”


	37. let's run away - Richie/Seth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt _my heart stops when you look at me / just one touch now, baby, i believe this is real / so take a chance and don't ever look back_.

It was a stupid idea, but not one of his worst, of which there had been plenty more to keep it low on the list.

(he couldn’t help it from coming out of his mouth, low and careful as he leaned heavy on Richie’s side, bruised and bloody and holding steady to the only solid thing he could ever remember having, Richie clean and mark free, all healed up like a goddamn miracle— _wanna do a tour, like old times, huh, brother?_ he asked, coughing with bruised lungs, Richie’s hand soothing over his back, sliding up to lead Seth’s head to his shoulder, stroking over his hair

 _maybe when you’re patched up_ , Richie said, not a yes or a no, but Seth dragged him into the car before his ribs had fully healed, Richie’s eyes on him when he sped out onto the road)

Seeing the sights by night was a fruitless fucking pursuit (but that didn't stop them), roadside attractions closed up at two in the morning--even if they broke in, hopped a fence, the lights were out and Seth could see the World’s Biggest Ball of Twine, even if he could touch it, Richie leading his hands through the shadows to the rough ridges.

The Grand Canyon was a void, purple and cool blues, and infinite darkness, and Seth wonders what Richie saw, eyes shining gold in the moonlight, his hand gripping the collar of Seth’s shirt when he moves too close to the edge and stays there, fingers cold rubbing circles at the base of Seth’s skull.

( _look up_ , Richie whispers in his ear, sounding like a gust of wind and Seth turns his eyes to the sky; he’d never seen so many stars, too much city and not enough country, the lights almost blinding, tiny explosions across the midnight blue and he gasps, hand gripping Richie’s hair, clean and dry and free of gel, when his mouth slides wet around his cock, taking him all the way in as Seth’s breath comes out in puffs of fog, Richie humming around him as he watches the stars)

Richie doesn’t drive, lets Seth have the wheel and decide where they go, offering navigation when Seth needs direction, but doesn’t argue, a calm growing inside him that Seth doesn’t understand, but isn’t scared of—lets Richie tune the radio to a station that only plays cool jazz and pushes on through the night to next coast, a new city.

(days are passed sleeping or fucking slow with the shades drawn and curtains pulled tight, Richie warming so close to his skin, biting him with careful nips and lapping up the drops of blood, hiding his grin against Seth’s neck on the side of the flames, lips pressed over the scars that never healed quite right—he misses his heartbeat sometimes, his chest real but hollow, but they can share, been sharing with Richie his whole life)

“Seth,” Richie says, and he keeps driving into the warm orange on the horizon. “You have to stop.”

He turns to look at Richie, hooking his gaze on his, staring too long while speeding down the empty interstate--no _eyes on the fucking road_ , no scrambling for the wheel, Richie matching him breath for breath, mimicking his pattern as they share a life.

“I know,” Seth says, pulling his gaze away, and presses the gas pedal a little harder.

Seth had always liked sunsets better.


	38. In your dreams - Richie/Seth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt _post s2, creepy Richie watches Seth sleep_

Seth doesn’t sleep well.

( _you should fucking do something about it_ , but Richie can’t make his legs move, can’t push himself up from the chair in the corner of the room, eyes on Seth twisting in the sheets of a too big bed, fitful as it swallows him up, heart rate fast, the tempo pounding in Richie’s head—

it’s how he spends the hours he should be resting, but can’t, restless energy alive under his ribs whenever he splits from Seth to his own room, the distance too much to bear when it’s only a few square feet; the sounds Seth makes in his sleep echo off the stone walls)

The dark circles become a permanent fixture and Richie wants to rub the way the smudge in his skin with his thumbs, wants to drug his drink and carry Seth off to his room, stand guard until the gold in his skin comes back, no more of the pale pallor that makes Richie sick to look at—maybe it’s switch, from daywalker to nocturnal; Richie remembers when he rose with the sun, bleary-eyed and living.

(Richie doesn’t sleep—eats little and feels cold all the time, like a chill had seeped into his bones and poisoned what’s left of his heart sitting too long in the bowels of _Jacknife’s_ , too long in a chair that never feels quite right, too long alone, burying himself underground)

Seth’s screams shred up his insides, the kind he’d never forgotten, guttural, raw screams that never wake him, come from the black pits inside of him, infected wounds that never healed but turned septic. Too many painful corners that Seth never had the talent to bury deep enough, not like Richie, anger still burning in Seth’s guts like a furnace he keeps stoking.

(sometimes Richie thinks the black flames move, writhe and flick, sharp sinuous lines winding around Seth’s arm, licking at his throat, alive and burnt out)

Seth’s forehead is sticky under his palms when he folds, running his hands over his face, seeking the heat of a fever lurking underneath but getting lost at first contact, Seth’s skin sweet to the touch—it was easy, so fucking easy, just his name, whimpered and whispered, just _Richie_ from Seth’s throat, hooking and tugging, drawing him to the bed, drawing him to Seth, drawing him between the sheets and pressing close. Seth burrows against him, head tucked under Richie’s chin; no more screaming, no more fits, breathing soft, steady, and deep.

(Seth is a fire in his hands, the kind Richie winds and winds himself around, lets him engulf him, skin scorched and cold blood warmed, wicking away the ice he let settle in his veins, the kind he can’t help touching—reminds him of Santanico and her beams of light, hand catching fire and skin smoking, bubbling; like touching Seth could turn his hands red, bright and burned.)

When Richie sleeps, he doesn’t dream anymore.


	39. cut - Richie/Seth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt _knives_.

Richie’s always looked gorgeous with a blade against his skin, with a shock of red bubbling up, settling off his fair complexion, the blade glinting in the low light, making Richie shine. 

His blood still tastes the same—bright and coppery, bursting over Seth’s tongue rusty and familiar, not as warm, but warm enough and Seth can’t help but lap it up, ducking his head and licking across the cut he made under Richie’s collarbone. Richie groans, reverberating deep in his throat, arching up towards Seth’s mouth chasing the closing wound like Seth got a hand on his dick or his lips around a nipple—like Seth was already fucking him.

“You like that?” he whispers, fingers braced around Richie’s hips, leaning his forehead against his temple, licking his lips, licking up the excess blood. “You like when I feed off you, brother?”

Richie shudders. Doesn’t matter that Seth’s still human, doesn’t matter that Richie’s not–it turns Richie’s goddamn crank, cock leaking over Seth’s fingers when he gets a hand inside his briefs, lets out a sharp cry, bitten off when Seth’s blunt edged teeth sink into his jugular and breaks through his skin. 

It never lasts—all the marks Seth leaves heal right up, as soon as he leaves them, only thing left is the stain, red rubbed pink, drying across Richie’s chest like a flush. 


	40. i still find you dashing - Richie/Seth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt _Your pretty face is soaked in blood, but you know, I still find you dashing._

“Hey, hey,” Seth says in that voice Richie’s grown used to, the hushed soft tone that makes Richie feel like a wild animal, something to be approached with careful steps and outstretched palms, his tone gentle.  Seth tips his chin up to drag the damp cloth up his stained neck. “It’s alright, buddy, I got you covered.”

Richie winces at the nickname just as it unfurls inside him, spreading warmth out from his chest, tingling in his fingers and churning in his gut. “Seth,” he says, trying to pull away, but Seth’s hand clamps around his wrist, holding him steady, holding him close. “I can do this myself. You don’t have to—” His throat catches when Seth looks up at him, tightening down on his words, squeezing his voice at the sight of his eyes open, staring up at Richie unhindered, a tenderness kindling underneath his expression, framed in his lashes. “—you don’t have to do this for me.”

Seth’s tongue darts out, swiping across his bottom lip as the corner of his mouth tugs upwards. “I want to, brother.”

(Richie hadn’t meant to make such a mess— _he should be past that now, he knows he’s past that, making a mess when he eats, when he feeds_ —but the kill had been quick, a sudden spring in his legs that had him on the guy and fangs digging into his jugular, tearing him open as his blood spurted into his mouth and all over him, ruining another shirt. Seth hasn’t learned to look away, watching now with greedy spectator’s eyes that shudder through Richie like it might loosen his skin and expose him, meat and bones, to the world. The fear had been replaced with something Richie couldn’t make himself pick up and give a name to, the change in Seth that makes him grab his bloody hands and lead him away from another corpse.)

Seth rinses the cloth and brings it back to Richie’s skin, pulling at his shirt, tearing the buttons off—doesn’t matter, it’s stained anyway, has to be burned, rid them of the evidenced Richie trailed back to their motel room.  The cloth is lukewarm against his cheek as Seth swipes it across his face, cleaning away the last of the splatter. Richie loses himself in the sensation, the rough wet drag as Seth breathes out, inhaling in, his heart beat a steady percussion that lulls Richie away.

“Hey Richie,” Seth says, tugging on his chin to get his attention, his brown eyes the first thing that comes back into focus. “Can I see?”

Richie knows what he means, can see it the way he tugs his bottom lip behind his teeth, how Seth tips his head down, but keeps his eyes cast up, lids at half mast—an artful manipulation of his face, erasing away years worn out on his skin, taking away the time he spent in prison, making invisible the gray peeking into his temples; all Richie can see is Seth at fifteen, trying to seduce him with a glance.

“Alright.”

It’s like flipping a switch now, about twisting his jaw the right way and his face shifts, bones rearranging as his skin gives way to scales, fangs descending. Seth watches with hitching breaths, but Richie doesn’t smell fear on him anymore, but something else that feels more base, curls into his nose and catches at the back of his throat.

Richie closes his eyes when Seth touches him, dropping the cloth into the sink, inhaling when Seth’s fingertips map the crest of his brow and stroke down, palms pressing briefly against his cheeks until his fingers curl under his jaw. Richie feels the pressure of his thumbs on his fangs, sliding them down the curve. It sends shivers through him, makes his fists clench at his sides—makes his chest hurt, though his heart has long since died. Seth’s lips follow the same pattern, sweeping across his forehead, pressing hard in the middle, kissing both cheeks before their mouths collide.

He holds still and lets Seth kiss him, leaning into the sensation of his tongue wrapping around each of his fangs. He nudges at the tips with his tongue, his lips sliding against Richie’s once more before it’s just his breath, hot and thick with humidity as Seth lays his forehead to Richie’s, holding him close by the back of the neck.

“You’re still my brother like this,” he says, nuzzling their noses together; Richie’s eyes flutter open when Seth breathes in and stares at rows of his lashes. “It’s good to see your face, brother.”


	41. Future Perfect - Richie/Seth

In the end, it’s just the two of them.

Eddie’s place is theirs, the paperwork handled under the table, quiet, their names kept away from government ears by a small man in glasses, saying he owed Eddie a favor as slid the deed into Richie’s hands—it’s something like he wants and nothing at all, but there’s a shop to be taken care of and all of Eddie’s secrets to dig through, dust off; Richie knows his shoes will never fit.

(maybe he should have seen it, how he would circle back to Seth, circle back home, treading old paths, like always and now forever, his own true north—he never should have tried running, no matter how many times he tries to tell himself _Seth started it, Seth turned his back first_ )

Seth cleans in slow, square feet, emptying a box at a time, a whole day to alphabetize a bookcase of VHS tapes, doesn’t speak, neither of them do, and the words left unsaid pile up between them like small mountains of Eddie’s old clothes.

(he cooks when he’s hungry, making enough for two and Richie eats it, cautious smile after a bite and doesn’t say how it tastes muted, dull sense of what he remembers and he misses it like he misses Seth, while he sits across from him at Eddie’s tiny, square kitchen table)

They sleep together in the back bedroom, like old times, the queen-sized bed still there while guilt of it has eroded away–the open secret between them and Eddie, how he learned early on that Seth never slept in his own bed, could only sleep well pressed close to Richie’s skin.

(he kisses Richie hard, grabbing his face as he climbs into his lap, straddles his thighs, panting _please, please_ into his mouth, tracing it with his tongue; Richie can taste the desperation in his blood, how he offers up his throat like he offers up his memories, bits and pieces of his soul that hit like throwing knives, cutting Richie open

_ please don’t leave _ , Seth groans, _all I dream about is you leaving_ )

Richie smokes afterwards ( _old habit, like his glasses, like falling into bed with Seth–hard to kick_ ), Seth asleep at his side, arm over his chest, leg across both of his like that would stop him, wound at his neck clotting, their shared blood running along his collarbone, a new stain.

He stays, listening to the _thud thud thud_ of Seth’s heart, counting the beats until he loses track into the thousands.


	42. no safety - Richie/Seth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt _weapon_.

Seth doesn’t tremble the way Richie thinks he should, running the muzzle of his gun from Seth’s hip, over his ribs—Richie’s gun, fully loaded, safety off, Richie’s finger stroking the trigger in sweet, delicate swipes, muzzle circling one of Seth’s nipples until he’s arching, a gasp rolling over his tongue as his lips part.  _We shouldn’t be doing this_ , Richie thinks, mapping the length of Seth’s collarbone, dipping the gun into the hollow of his throat, metal warming against Seth’s skin,  _we shouldn’t be fucking doing this_ –but Seth’s chin tips up, head falls back so good for Richie when he runs the gun up his neck and strokes Seth’s cheek.

The muzzle fits too well against Seth’s temple, makes Richie’s cock throb as Seth’s tongue flickers out over his lips—panting now, quick rapid breaths that Richie can’t shake, can’t get out of his head, gaze caught between Seth’s dark eyes and the flutter of his pulse under his skin.

“Get on your knees,” Richie says, smoother than he thought he was capable of, still choking on the order; he shudders when Seth just fucking drops, knees bending on command, no backtalk, just his eyes cast up, waiting for Richie to tell him what to do.

Richie runs his free hand through Seth’s hair, stroking over the crown of his head, down the arc of his neck, trying to quell the trembling in his fingers against Seth’s skin. 

“Good boy,” he says, his stomach flipping, churning over when Seth closes his eyes and nuzzles the palm of his hand. 


	43. Inked in my skin - Richie/Seth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt _kiss on the neck_.

Richie avoids him, careful not to be left alone with him after that first day, after their encounter in the office (Seth can still feel Richie’s hand in his hair if he thinks hard enough, pushing his face against the hardwood of the desk, holding him down like Seth held him in the sunlight, the last time Richie was inside him); distance was better, Seth thinks, rolling over in his too empty bed, in a room all his own, down the hall and too damn far from his brother. 

( _you’re not gonna hurt me_ , he says to Richie, getting him cornered for a moment, a stolen bit of time, voice an agonizing desperate noise he recognizes, begging poor Kate for another hit, asking a dealer to cut him a fucking break—but Richie nudges him to the side, lifts him off his feet and walks free, whispering, _that’s not what I’m worried about_ , in his ear later, creeping up behind him, noiseless)  

Richie watches him all the time, can feel his eyes like hot brands, burning between his shoulderblades when he moves across the room when he makes his rounds, playing another role, putting on another guise—host, boss man, manager, the _I hope you’re having a good evening, it’s on the house_ guy. Richie mouth quirks to the side when he catches him, a grin, almost, eyes glowing in the gloom of the shadows.

( _thought you wanted out_ , Seth thinks, _isn’t this why you did this—wanted the spotlight for once, brother_ ; but Richie skirts the edge like he skirts just out of reach, just out of the sun)

Richie folds, breaking his own stalemate when he shoves Seth against the wall just outside the kitchen and Seth arches for him, rolling against him, mouth still burning from the last time he kissed him too hard, left his him bruised and swollen—but Richie’s mouth goes for his throat, opening across his jugular under his jaw. Seth gasps, a white-hot shudder running from the soles of his feet to the back of his skull as he grabs fistfuls of Richie’s suit jacket.

“Do it, do it, come on, Richie, do it,” he starts to chant, swallowing gulps of air, too shallow to reach deep enough, waits for sharp bite of pain, old wounds throbbing for it.

It never comes, Richie’s fangs sheathed as his mouth moves across his throat, mapping the expanse in open mouthed kisses, sucking and licking at his skin—his tongue tracing the black flames, flickering across the edges, leaving the scars underneath tender with a new mark that Richie rubs, pads of his fingers pressing against the puncture wounds that never heal quite right as he brings their heads together, eyes yellow when Seth opens his own.

“Why’d you get this?” he asks, second time, thumb brushing the ink crawling across Seth’s collarbone.

Seth steals the kiss, quick and chaste and his. “You know why, you’ve always known why.”


	44. Sweating out confessions - Richie/Seth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt _priest AU_

Seth’s eyes flash in the dark gloom of his room, bright like lightening, ethereal and dangerous, something not of this world, but Richie can’t help up reach out run his fingers across his cheekbones, cupping his palms around Seth’s cheeks—he grins, sharp teeth and wolfish, familiar, like the weight of his hand, palm spread across Richie’s heart, searching for the thudding, pressing his fingers in against pulse hard enough like he might dig in and tear it out.

(sick part is—Richie would let him,  _tell him, it’s yours, it’s always been yours_ )

Seth crawls on top of him, shoves him down against the thin mattress of his narrow bed, hovering over him as his breath ghosts across Richie’s lip, eyes black now, glinting when moonbeams catch across the slick black oil of his gaze. “Do you even believe in God, brother?” he asks, rubbing his fingers across the architecture of his chest, knees slipping around Richie’s waist, bracketing Richie in underneath him. 

“Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy Kingdom Come–” Seth finds his nipple through his thin t-shirt, circling the small, sensitive nub, breathing in Richie’s gasp, mouth close as Seth brings their foreheads together, but not close enough. “How does it go—Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I have coveted thy own brother.”

Richie arches up, grabbing at the back of Seth’s neck and shoves their mouths together, tastes the laugh on his breath, tastes the warm wet sweetness of his mouth, licking inside, lapping at the roof of his mouth as Seth’s hands travel under his shirt, pushing the cotton up until Richie feels it bunch under his armpits, feels Seth’s fingers on his nipples, rubbing and pinching, making him buck up under him, making him bite at Seth’s full bottom lip and suck.

“So easy, Richie,” Seth pants into his mouth, hands stroking down his torso, moving lower. “Did your vows mean anything at all?” Seth’s hand is warm and rough around his slick, sticky cock, gripping him under the waistband of his pajama bottoms, his underwear, like old memories that shudder through him, just kids touching each other in ways that should and shouldn’t, his brother making him gasp and whine for him, just like this. “Or was it a piss-poor replacement for this, us, me?”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck— _Christ_ , Seth,” he moans, hips jerking up under Seth, into his tightening grip.

Seth licks Richie, chin to his nose, grinning when he pulls away. “Christ can’t help you now, Father.”


	45. And I built a home - Richie/Seth/Vanessa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt _accidental baby acquisition_.

At first he didn’t believe it, but he isn’t blind when he meets her and sees Vanessa’s thick dark hair pulled back out of her eyes that look like his own, staring at him in a familiar way behind thick-lens glasses. “Hi Gracie,” he says, kneeling down to her level but doesn’t reach out, lets her stare with her brows knitted together, looking from him to Vanessa, to Richie hovering behind him.

“Her name is Grace,” Vanessa had told him, after she agreed to meet him after they got out of Mexico, just barely— _too fucking close of a call_ —and he had smiled. “I like that. Gracie Gecko. It has a nice ring to it.”

Her face had gone cold, stern and serious, a look he hadn’t seen before. “She’s not a Gecko,” she said, voice strong, firm and final. “She’s not  _yours._ ”

“I know,” he said, meeting her eyes, putting his hands on the table, fingers curling against the flat-surface. “But she’s still blood. She’s still  _Richie’s_.”

Richie didn’t want to tell him, kept it hoarded away while Seth coaxed Vanessa into planning the job, unused to her reluctance and careful consideration of her involvement and was left confused when Vanessa took the money, no questions asked, no pleading to go with him, no asking him to stay. When he told Richie, he’d demanded why he gave her little—it all came spilling out after that, little bits and pieces he pried from Richie’s clenched teeth until he had the whole story.

“Are you mad?” Richie had asked, for once not meeting his eyes, kept his eyes cast away.

Seth had to grab his chin and lift, to have his eyes on his. “No, I’m not mad.” He laughs, rubbing his thumbs against Richie’s cheeks. “You and Vanessa, I still don’t believe it.”

But Richie’s in her face, smaller and smoother, but the angles are there, cutting across her cheekbones and down the slope of her nose, to the way she holds her features, blank and locked down, only a subtle flickering in her eyes giving anything away. Seth had never felt so easily the warmth spreading in his chest, forceful and edging on pain as it clenches when he looks at her and she tilts her head at him, her hands curled tightly around Vanessa’s hand like it’s her lifeline, a tether.

(Richie used to do that, hold tight to his hand when they were kids like he might float away if Seth didn’t keep him grounded.)

Gracie lifts her other hand, finger outstretched and pointing behind him. “That’s my dad,” she says, conviction in her voice. “But who are you?”

Seth isn’t sure how to answer, throat constricting around the word, but Richie saves him, stepping close, but not lowering himself, making Gracie crane her head to meet his gaze head-on, a set of determination in her jaw.

“He’s your uncle.”


	46. begin again - Richie/Seth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt _sunrise_.

Seth can see the light peeking out from behind the curtains, slices of bright sunshine that he’s tempted to go near, to feel what is feels like now–that kind of burn. Richie grabs him, hand around his arm, tugging him back into the bed, rolling Seth underneath his body like he could hear his thoughts ( _maybe he can now, all his blood inside his brother, so much of his soul now Richie’s, like it already wasn’t before, maybe Richie can see inside his head like Kisa could see inside Richie’s_ ) and he had to stop him, keep Seth safe pinned to the mattress, keep Seth underneath him.

( _you’re mine now_ , Richie whispered to him in the darkness, the night before, his cock buried deep inside Seth, almost as deep as his fangs went, tearing into his throat–not thrusting, but holding, hands cupped around Seth’s face, eyes glowing in the gloom,  _mine in ways you weren’t before, I made you, turned you—_ Seth wanted to tell him,  _you’ve turned other people, what’s the difference_ , but Richie stole it from his tongue, opening Seth’s mouth with his own, hips jerking back and thrusting in hard)

Richie’s eyes are blue in the morning, looking down at him like the sky Seth won’t ever get to see the same way, but he made that choice, both of them did the moment the knife sunk too deep into his gut and the blood wouldn’t stop flowing, over his hands and his brother’s, still embedded under Richie’s fingernails–their blood staining their palms as Richie tried to hold him together, put him back together.

( _it’s not fair_ , Richie had moaned in his ear, sharp like a sob, tears wet and cool on Seth’s cheek; it wasn’t, rotten luck, goddamn Gecko luck—save the world, end up bleeding out in your brother’s arms–it made him laugh, until he was choking on his own blood, until he was telling Richie,  _do it, just fucking do it_ , tasting copper in his mouth, tasting death, before it all went black—

there was always ways of cheating fate—and he and Richie, they’re the fucking masters of it)

“Don’t hate me,” Richie says, voice careful and small, his grip growing loose as he trembles on top of Seth. “Please.”

Seth reverses their positions, rolling Richie onto his back, climbing on top of him, his hips digging into Seth’s thighs as he leans down, holding Richie’s face as he pulls their foreheads together. “Hey, brother,” he says, brushing his mouth across Richie’s lips, pressing a soft kiss there. “We fucking made it to the other side. I couldn’t hate you for that.”

Richie stills underneath him, melting into the kiss, melting into Seth like that’s all he wanted to do, all his life, fold himself under Seth’s ribs and never come out. 


	47. Turned - Richie/Seth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt _teenage culebra AU_.

Richie keeps staring at himself in the mirror, running his hands over his face, poking and stretching, making his fangs pop out and in with the hinge of his jaw, his scales appear and recede—Seth watches him from the doorframe, sees the change over his shoulder, a reflection, two-sides of his brother now, two sets of eyes, blue and yellow; his brother and the monster he made him.

( _we match, brother_ , Seth says, hovering over Richie with his blood smeared across his mouth, still soaking his tongue, the taste of his brother sharp and minty, a flashes of shared memories playing across his mind as Richie blinks up at him, pupils slitted, scales a dark gold–smooth and bumpy and cool under his fingers)

Richie turns when their eyes meet, looking at him with his new face, a low snarl building in his throat and Seth feels the impact before he realizes Richie had charged, shoving him to the floor and climbing on top of Seth, hands shackled around his wrists. “Fuck you, _fuck you_ , I don’t want to be sixteen forever,” he growls in Seth’s face, eyes glowing bright.

(he hadn’t meant to, he hadn’t known when he got in the sleek car, the kind he liked to steal and ride around with Richie, lured in by a wad of cash for just a blowjob–more than his asking, more than he asks for a fuck; Seth should have known, deal too sweet to be just that, thinks about it now remembering the man on top of him, leather gloves on Seth’s face, bearing him into the seat and his fangs sinking in deep, how it set a fire running through his veins, how he tried to drive off with him after, whispering, _the pain will be over soon, mijo_ , but Seth opened the door, rolled out onto the pavement and crawled his way home to Richie)

Seth gets the upperhand—matched now, strength for strength, he and Richie—and rolls Richie underneath him, knees bracketed around his hips, Richie hissing, snarling under him, teeth snapping, but Seth can’t pull away, pushes closer, their foreheads coming together, Richie’s scales feeling new and electric against his vulnerable skin.

“I didn’t want to be alone forever,” Seth says, whimpering low in his throat, softening Richie’s mouth against his with a kiss, slow and careful.


	48. Promise me you'll never go away - Richie/Seth/Vanessa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt _zombie apocalypse au_.

When they find her, she points a gun at Richie’s forehead, hand still and eyes blank.

_Good_ , he thinks,  _that’s good_.

Vanessa looks a mess, no makeup and hair pulled back and torn clothes, dirt smeared on her forehead, her cheeks, blood under her nails—but she’s alive, a little banged up but unbitten and still breathing ( _she’s a survivor_ , he’d told Seth when he dragged him on this quest to find her,  _like us, she’ll be fine_ ). “Are you bitten?” she asks, voice rough, timbre dry and cracked, vocal chords unused—he wonders how long she’d been on her own before he found her, huddled against the side of a building. “Are you real?”

He doesn’t move, neither forward or back, but raises his hand, turns them palms up. “Would you trust me if I said no?”

Vanessa’s eyebrows knit together, eyes sharpening as she cocks her head, raising the gun higher, closer to his head. “Maybe.”

“Have you met any of them that talk, Vanessa?” Most of them are silent, but some scream when they charge, quicker than the old Romero flicks had suggested, but he was right about the headshots putting them down. She should know, he doesn’t doubt she’s shot a few. ( _He wants to ask how many, but he bites that down, not sure how kindly she’d take to that_.)

“I wouldn’t put it past you to be the first,” she says, dissolving into laughter, soft hiccuping noises that could also be sobs—he wasn’t sure, even with the tears running down her face, washing the dirt away in streaks because her mouth is curved and open, teeth showing.

She drops the gun and he wants to tell her to pick it up,  _how the fuck could you be so careless_ , but then she crashes into him, arms around his neck, hands gripping his shirt in bunches as she presses her wet face against his neck, whispering, “I never would have guessed how fucking glad I would be to see  _you_.” His arms go around her with caution, unsure of where he should put his hands, how tight he should hold— _fuck, Seth should have been the one to find her_ , he thinks, but tries, puts his hand on her back, stroking down her spine.

“I’ll be damned,” Seth says, rounding the corner, lowering his shotgun to his side.

Vanessa lifts her head to the sound of his voice and Richie loosens his arms, readying to release her, but her hands don’t let go, clinging to him as she watches Seth approach, breath hitching in his ear. “She was hiding around the corner,” he tells Seth, watching his eyes flick between them and he tries to read his expression, but sometimes Seth is hard to read, features locked down and wired up right, impossible to crack. “She tried to shoot me.”

He doesn’t laugh, but cracks a smile. “Good girl.”

He shifts closer and Richie keeps waiting for her to slip away and reach for Seth, but she stays put, only one hand letting go. She latches it onto Seth when he comes near enough and Richie has to move to match her movements when she tugs on Seth’s shirt, pulling him against her, against Richie, her arm around his back, Richie’s folding over hers, their foreheads colliding.

“You stupid fucking idiots,” she says, nuzzling against Seth’s cheek, the corner of her mouth curled upwards. “I’m glad you came to find me.”


	49. I wasn't thinking of you at all - Richie/Seth/Vanessa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt _I never meant to hurt you, you have to believe me; I wasn't thinking about you at all_

The mark is high up on Seth’s neck, under his jaw, ugly red-purple darkening his skin and there’s no missing it, no hiding it.

Vanessa presses her fingers down on it, watching the color change, listening to Seth whine and pant like just touching it could get him off, if she pressed just right. She doesn’t ask where it came from, not in the mood to listen to him scramble to come up with another unconvincing lie, too half-baked and careless, like he really doesn’t give a shit about making her believe him.

She knows, anyway—could only be one source, she knows the way her gut tightens and her heart picks up in her chest, face flushing like she might faint, trembling like she might be sick. She presses down harder against the mark, shaped by a mouth, teeth marks still embedded in his skin and feels him lean on her, gasping out.

(She wonders if Richie thinks he’s being subtle, or he meant it to be subtle at all—it was a message, that much she knew, coded in Seth’s skin, placement unmistakable.)

She bites Seth’s shoulder while he fucks into her, her nails dragging down his back. Vanessa bites hard enough she breaks skin and copper dribbles on her tongue, sucking at his skin until it turns puffy and bright red, purpling at the center. He comes, thrusting deep and she holds him, wrapped around him, squeezing and bearing down until she’s panting against his throat and shaking against him.

(After their next job, Seth returns with a new bruise on his collarbone, inches from where hers is fading, Richie’s fresh and noticeable—it’s a game now, like writing their names on Seth’s skin with lips and teeth, and seeing who would win, who can stake the most claim.

_Richie: 2. Vanessa: 1._

She shoves Seth down against the bed, climbing up to straddle him, running her teeth down his chest, mapping out a place to leave her mark.)  


	50. Tiny Dancer - Richie/Seth/Vanessa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt _Blue jean baby, L.A. lady, seamstress for the band / Pretty eyed, pirate smile, you’ll marry a music man / Ballerina, you must have seen her dancing in the sand / And now she’s in me, always with me, tiny dancer in my hand_

It wasn’t so bad sometimes, if she remembers back—before Vegas and Seth shoved a ring on her finger, laying claim where he had no right to, and she had laughed, too drunk and giddy to realize her mistake, it not hitting her until months later alone in her apartment, surrounded by his things, and Seth nowhere in sight—being the third wheel to the Brothers Gecko, taking up space in the backseat when they drove to the next job, the next score, working along side them like maybe she could fit somewhere.

Richie and her pouring over blueprints, putting in long hours casing a bank, sharing fries out of a crumpled fast food bag, working out a plan while Seth took apart guns, cleaned them, and put them back together without blinking, without thinking, muscle memory taking control. Jobs seemed easy when they pooled together resources, smooth and simple, with barely any risks and casualties—in and out, cash hot in their hands, speeding out of state.

Laying low in the aftermath had been her favorite, picking a tourist trap town off the map and blending in with the crowd, the three of them acting like they were on vacation, Seth laughing loud and unhindered in her ear as he swung an arm around her neck and Richie’s, leading them down a rickety boardwalk, sun bearing down and the air salty and breezy.

They let her in cautiously, with care for what seemed like a few brief moments in time—Vanessa didn’t think they realized what they were doing, but she noticed, been in enough homes to notice when people have got walls they don’t know how to let down; the difference was—is that they tried, despite how they were stitched tight together, just the two of them, loosening the threads just a bit for her to slip between.


	51. Homesick - Richie/Vanessa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt _dropping food off for him_.

Vanessa takes careful steps up towards  the door, feeling with her foot to test the strength of the wood—it looks flimsy, thin and worn down by the elements, not cared for enough to maintain it, but it holds her weight as she climbs up the few steps, it seems to hold Richie. She knocks, though the door is cracked in places, the bottom broke up so anything could get in. It makes her wince to see the conditions, what he’s exiled himself to, hiding out in the woods an hour’s drive from any sort of civilization.

“Hey Richie,” she says, and knows he can hear her, sense him through the splintering wood as he tries to move like a ghost, but he’s solid and his weight makes the floorboards creak and groan. “I got some food for you.” It’s not much, a few non-perishables, a dinner she made closed up in tupperware, but it clears her conscience for a moment, stops the buzz of worrying at the back of her mind.

He seems to still for a moment, though she can’t figure out where, obscured and away from the door. “Leave it and go,” he says, voice thin and dry like rice paper, straining over  the  words—Vanessa is glad she thought to bring water.

“Can I see you?” she asks, pressing on the door—it gives, but he’s quick to catch it, shoving it back, keeping them divided. “Come on, Richie, I go see Seth next week and he’ll want to know you’re okay.” He gasps a bit, high hitching sound coming through the door. She knows it’s cruel to dangle Seth like that, remind him of where he can’t go and why he might have ended up here, but it’s the only card she has to play, Seth the ace of her sleeve; he wouldn’t care what she has to say next. “I want to know you’re okay.”

He snorts, but pulls the door open and lets her see him—she trains her face not to let him see, but he eyes her like he knows, the blue always sharp and cutting like a knife, splitting her open to expose the truth. It’s a shock to see him like this, grubby torn clothes and hair brushing the base of his neck, a rough growth of a beard obscuring his jawline. He looks dirty, not clean like she’s used to, pristine and immaculate, every hair held in place. She takes a deep inhale, and steps around him inside the shack as he closes the door behind them.

There’s not much space, just one room with a woodstove and a beat up old couch she imagines he’s been sleeping on. Vanessa spins to meet his gaze and finds him watching her—he seems too big for the space; it makes him hunch as he peers at her, both direct and with confusion, like he’s not sure she’s real.

“You look like shit,” she says, setting the food and the water on the rickety table by the woodstove. “How long has it been since you showered?” She steps back towards him, raising her hand. “God, you need to shave.” Richie catches her wrist when her fingers brush the coarse, curling hairs and keeps his hand locked tight; Vanessa looks up at him with a set jaw. “You could come back with me, you know. We could be like before.”

Richie laughs, a hushed shuddering sound that makes him wince, tipping his head down and away from her gaze. “And what? _Play house_ again?”

Vanessa swallows, remembering the way he felt in her apartment, too big and too comfortable, brushing something strange but not unwelcome, and nods. “Yeah, Richie, yeah. If you want.”

He tugs her hard, so abrupt she trips on the floorboards and lands against him, free hand catching on his shirt to steady herself as his arm goes around her and traps her, bodies pressed close. He smells rank, worse up close, but she doesn’t gag, tries to breathe through her mouth. “What if I want everything?” He releases her wrist and tips her face toward his with his fingers nudging up under her chin, his eyes dark peering into hers, pupils blown wide. “What if I want what we did?”

Her heart trips over, then picks up a rapid pace while her stomach flips—for a moment she feels like a jackrabbit caught by a coyote, Richie’s mouth crooking to the side, giving her an ugly smile that doesn’t touch his eyes. Despite it, she can’t help how it shivers over her skin, thinking about allowing him and wonders if he can sense the way her skin heats up, makes it feel tight with goosebumps, her breathing going shallow as it aches at the apex of her thighs.

(It’d be filthy, but she’d let him here. If he wanted, on his rundown ratty old couch or even on the floor, getting splinters in her back— _let him fuck her because she’s missing something too, though she’s better at holding herself together without it, but she still feels it, the jagged edges scraping inside her, making her want anything to numb the pain, anything to take its place_ —feel him close, skin on skin, let him fill her up so she forgets for a moment, face pressed against his neck and legs around his waist.)

She nods. “Whatever you want.” 

Richie shoves her away, unkind and rough, and she has to keep steady on her legs to keep upright. “Go home,” he tells her, brushing past her and turning away.

Vanessa catches her breath, pulling at her clothes and tucking her hair behind her ear. She thinks about going, leaving without another word to pass between them ( _maybe stay away this time, but she won’t, something always keeps her coming back_ ).

She stays a moment longer, and says, “Do you want me to tell Seth anything?”

Richie’s back goes rigid and he doesn’t turn, just stills where he got caught by her words. “Tell him,” he says so soft she can hardly make out the words. “Tell him I’ll see him soon, brother.”


	52. Blood in the water - Richie/Seth/Vanessa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt _they’ll nosh you up / they’ll nosh the love away but it’s fair to say / you will still haunt me_

To say it was a deal gone bad might be the understatement of the century–Vanessa thinks about it, laughing under her breath as she counts the bills over again, placing them in neat stacks all across the scratched motel table, writing down the sums in neat columns on the motel notepad, tries to figure out the conversion rate, tries to makes sense of how much they have after Seth’s guy got his cut, how much it’d be if they split it three-ways.

(she wonders how much it’d cost her to get new papers, to get back across the border, how much it’d cost her to get as far away from Texas before the feds knew she was there, how much it’d cost her to disappear—but she can’t make herself do the math, to budget it out, even thought it’d keep her hands and mind busy, keep her from watching Richie pace around the small room like a beast in a cage, edging around the beams of sunlight the curtains couldn’t quite cover; she couldn’t make herself think of leaving)

“Richie,” she says, starling when his head snaps in her direction, almost knocking the pad on the floor when she lays it across four stacks—he stares, watching in way he hadn’t before, not like he was looking through her, but under her skin, eyes caught at her throat as the turn golden and wild at the edges. “You hungry?”

He nods, then shakes his head, his eyes cooling back to blue. “I’m not doing that shit again, okay?” He lets out a shaky breath— _must be habit_ —and runs his hair through his hair, mussing it up, making it stick up at odd angles. “Stop offering.”

Vanessa swallows, her throat feeling dry as her skin prickles, her cheeks growing hot, remembering. “Okay, whatever you say. You better not attack me before Seth gets back is all I’m saying.” She goes back to counting the money.

Seth arrives soon after, warm food in paper bags that he hands over to her (eat up, sweetheart, he says grinning, eyeing the money next to her) as he passes by to reach Richie. He grabs for his collar, tugging him along behind him—the bathroom door closes.

_ Of course _ , she thinks, _of course_ , when they tumble back out, Richie wiping the red from his mouth, Seth’s neck adorned with a new bandage.

(she got out with a few scrapes and cuts, blood under her nails that didn’t belong to her—she got out by the skin of her teeth, another life gone, landing on her feet as always, but she sees the hole it carved in Seth, the way he watches Richie sometimes when his back is turned—thankful, mournful, and angry all at once, rubbing the new and old scars in the shape of teeth marks; she sees what it cost Richie and thinks it’s not fair, it’s not fair at all

so she stays, least she could do, _what else has she got to lose?_ )


	53. Brutal Hearts - Richie/Vanessa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt _Are you the brutal heart that I’ve been looking for? / Cause if you’re looking for love, you can look for that door / Hearts, hearts that break the night in two / And arms that can’t hold you that true / So use me, use me_

It’s not the whole suit, just a jacket hanging loosely from her shoulders and wrapped around her like a robe, leaving her legs bare, one crossed over the other as she relaxes back in the chair and Richie wonders what she’s wearing underneath because all he can see is bare skin, her hands holding the jacket closed. Vanessa looks up at him with a bare face, her eyes larger and bluer without the dark lines, guileless and open, an exposure in her glance as her head tilts, throat exposed, when he draws nearer. Her hair is pulled up off her face, off her neck, wound and pinned to her head in some smooth, sleek fashion that makes her look like she cut it off.

“That’s Seth’s,” he says, slow and careful, controlling his tone despite a frisson of emotion filling his head and skittering through his veins, shot off at his nerve endings, and he curls his fists, keeps his hands closed to keep from grabbing her and yanking it off.

Vanessa doesn’t look away and he can smell it, the warm biting scent of Seth’s cologne–he crouches, kneeling as he leans closer, hands folding around the arms of the chair, sniffing to see if it’s the jacket or if she splashed her skin with it, pushed back her scent to give him Seth’s.

“I know,” she says.

Her touch is tentative, reaching toward his face as the jacket falls open (she isn’t wearing anything, he should have figured, but he thought there might be something of herself something to identify her with, but she made herself a blank slate and poured Seth on top), but her hand settles on his  shoulder, moving down his arm, coming to rest on top of his hand, finger tucked around his wrist.

“It’s his birthday.”

The cake on the counter should have been his first clue, covered in white frosting and untouched, a perfect confection no one will eat, to be thrown away when it becomes too unsanitary to keep around, whole but rotten. Another year gone and past, he and Seth are the same age for this short stretch of months, this in between period before the clock turns on him, pushing him ahead–he can’t take comfort in that, the closeness he had always treasured, the time when Seth caught up and they were on equal footing, not when Seth was where he couldn’t reach, too many barriers, locks he can’t work open and set him free.

Richie shrinks, folding in on himself as he lays his head in her lap, cheek pressed to her thigh as Vanessa’s fingertips stroke through his hair, fingernails grazing his scalp.

“I miss him, too.”


	54. you’re my light, you’re my emptiness - Richie/Vanessa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt _you’re my light, you’re my emptiness / the pretty colors on that summer dress, babe_.

Vanessa softens in the summer.

_It’s the heat_ , Richie thinks, the black giving way to lighter, looser fabrics, Vanessa trading jeans for skirts, for lacy sundresses that make her look like she stepped out of an old movie from the 50’s, hair pinned and curled, lips stained red.

( _I miss the beach_ , Vanessa tells him one night in the haze of mid summer, when the nights never cool off and their skin sticks together like his and Seth’s did, curled too close in bed when they should have allowed the air to breathe around them.

He wants to ask when she had seen the coastline, knowing Tennessee is just as land-locked as Kansas, wants to ask how she made it out then chose to come back inward, wants to tell her,  _you should have stayed out there, kept your back to the ocean and feet in the sand_ –maybe she wouldn’t be stuck in this hole with him, black inside their heads and around their hearts, suffocating in the bright sunlight of summer.)

Today her dress is white, patterned with blue flowers the color of her eyes, shrugging straps over her shoulders with the bathroom door open. “Zip me up, would ya?” she asks, turning her back to him, zipper split to expose tanned skin. She shudders when Richie strokes up the curve of her spine, rubbing with the pads of his fingers before tugging the zipper up.

Vanessa turns and rises up, pressing her lips to his cheek, then rubbing away the mark she left with her thumb. “Thanks, Richie,” she says, holding his gaze, fingers curled under his jaw. “Want me to tell him anything?”

( _it’s been two years, it’s a wonder he’s still alive, bleeding internally since the first blow, the final tear, ripping out some vital organs, leaving a hole that no surgery could fix_ )

Richie shakes his head, tongue caught in his throat, words filling up inside him, enough to close the gap between him and Seth if they had any power. Vanessa leaves him with another kiss, soft and chaste against his lips.

(Vanessa comes back hard and demanding, climbing into his lap and shoving him back against the couch, kissing him with a mouth that tastes salty, lipstick gone and when she pulls back, panting heavily against his lip, into his mouth, he can see smeared mascara, the smudged eyeliner, hastily cleaned up in a rest stop bathroom.

“I hate this, I hate this, I hate this,” she whimpers in his ear, arms locked around his neck as she rocks on top of him with her underwear shoved to the side to let him in.

Richie mouths at her throat, tongue pressing in against her pulse, nose under her jaw, breathing in like he could steal away anything of Seth that might be lingering on her skin.

He reaches up and strokes over the back of her head, hair loose and messy, curls she ironed in limp with sweat.

“Me too.”)


	55. Vows - Richie/Vanessa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt _at best, you could’ve confessed that you’re a big mess and that you’re so damn weak_.

Richie doesn’t meet her eyes when they’re introduced, eyes cast down, cast up, cast around her shoulder looking at someone not her—he takes her hand in a loose grip and she squeezes his fingers tight, feels the way his knuckles grind together but he doesn’t look up, his mouth closed and flat.

Vanessa shallows, feeling a thud in her gut, almost knocks her over when he lets go– _you’re marrying that._

He doesn’t speak to her the whole evening, downing a new glass of champagne whenever she looks over at him. Seth fills her ear with charm and warm phrases, keeps close to her side, hands on her elbow, her waist, smiling in a way she’s not sure Richie is capable of, so stiff while his brother is fluid.

Richie walks her out—told to by his father’s harsh glare and asked by to his mother’s soft plying pleas; he doesn’t touch her, keeps his distance as they walk shoulder to shoulder, silent presence at her side.

“I’m sorry,” he says, like he could mean it, says it like defeat, like he’s not going to try, when he opens her car door, waits for her to get in.

Vanessa’s fist curls as she bites down on her tongue.

She could have socked him in the jaw for that.

 

 

 

When Richie kisses her at the altar (two weeks later, Ray Gecko insisted and her father complied, couldn’t refuse the increase in status, the wealth that came with the exchanging of rings like it was still the nineteenth century— _how easily she could be bought and sold, thrown to the wolves for the right price_ ), his lips are cold and closed, pressing against her mouth like he couldn’t wait to get away.

Vanessa grabs onto his collar and holds him, pressing against his mouth until he opens up and kisses her back, lips folding, softening as he fingers curl under the tie wrapped around his neck, tight like a noose—she bites his lip when he tries to shove her back, hands on her shoulders, nails digging through the white lace.

Of course there would be blood spilled on her wedding day.

Richie wipes it away with the back of his hand, keeping his back to their guests as she tries to force a smile, holding onto his wrist; Seth stares at her askance, around the breadth of his brother’s shoulders, something hot and sharp in his eyes, a ferality she hadn’t noticed under his heavy performance, too sleek and smooth, she hadn’t noticed the jagged edges.

The band around her finger pinches.

 

 

 

The punch Vanessa should have gave him lands four weeks later, shoving Richie back into their room ( _what a fucking joke_ , she thinks, knowing most nights he slips out or doesn’t join her at all, exiting Seth’s room in the morning, bold and shameless, dropping all pretense—it’s a secret everybody knows, she didn’t know why she was surprised), slamming her fist into his jaw, her gut twisting with satisfaction when he hunches over, hand clutching the slanted edge.

He laughs, choked and strangled, sounds like sobbing until it shatters and cracked, hiccuping as stares at her with bright eyes, mouth curled up at the corners. “That the best you can do?” he asks, catching his breath. “I’ve had worse.”

“I bet you deserved it,” she says, unapologetic, even when he winces, a flash of fragility in his eyes that she wants to dig her fingers into, pull it out and maybe he might start to make sense, something he begins to covet, like his company, like his attention.

Richie rubs the bruise just beginning to show, smoothing his other hand over his hair, mouth crooked and eyes locked down.

“Sometimes.”


	56. In Need - Rafa/Scott

Rafa helps him bury Jessica’s body (he can’t stop thinking, _fuck Jessica, how could I do this to Jessica, fuck fuck_ , and tries to be careful with her limbs, watching her head; thinking she deserves better than this, better than to rot in a hole in his backyard—they all deserve better); he doesn’t expect it, doesn’t expect him to get his hands dirty along with Scott’s, not from his sanctimonious lectures and evangelistic _you can be better_ attitude that reminds him of his father—it makes him laugh, an ugly choking sound, wondering where Kate found a culebra who spews sermons on how to be a good citizen and only murder bad people, like that makes it less sinful somehow.

Scott curls up under the tree they put Jessica under, feels the cool wet mud seep into jeans, his sneakers ruined, not sure he wants to move from this spot, the rain like ice, stabbing harsh and painful all over him, not cleansing like they write about in books, the kind of rain you see in movies. He thinks about how long until morning, if he’d last that long.

Rafa sits beside him, shovel tossed on the ground, his shoulder bony when it bumps Scott’s. “You know,” he starts, catching Scott’s glace side-long, then glancing at Kate curled up on the steps, soaked to her skin, across the yard from them watching, “my first kill, I hated myself, too.”

“Who says this is my first kill?” Scott bites it out, feels his teeth sharp in his mouth, feels his skin ripple; it is, he knows, first one that matters, first one not another monster.

Rafa’s mouth is tight, a kind of smile pulling and turning his mouth, eyes dark, reflecting the lightning when it flashes. “Do you hate yourself, Scott?”

Scott doesn’t answer, tongue swollen and thick, throat tight; can’t answer, wrapping his arms around his legs, tucking his chin on his knees, gut turning over, hollow and empty, a sick twist–but he doesn’t pull away when Rafa coils an arm over his shoulders, lets himself weaken against Rafa’s side, locking eyes with Kate through the rain.


	57. i'm just a teenage dirtbag, baby, like you - Scott/Seth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt _high school au_

Scott thought Kansas City would be better than Bethel—larger, metropolitan with more people, easier to disappear into anonymity and skate by—but so far it only meant bigger bullies, with rougher edges and more aggression, ready to let loose on the unsuspecting new kid.

( _Don’t talk to me_ , Kate had whispered out of the side of her mouth when they had entered the building on the first day, tossing her hand over her shoulder and walking down the hall to her first class—it had been a general rule, the pair of them never acted like they knew each other, even back in Bethel, somehow making it through without crossing social circles, eating separately in the cafeteria, Kate with her friends and Scott with no one. 

He didn’t know why he thought it’d be different here.)

Outrunning them had been his usual go-to strategy, and he had gotten good at navigating the back alleyways and hopping fences, making it out unscathed, panting when he caught a city bus home, his heart bruising his chest, kicking at his ribs. But sometimes they caught him, four to one, blocking his path and closing in on him—he’d also gotten good at lying, telling his mom he tripped, gotten hit in the face with a ball in gym.

 _It’s okay_ , really, he’d say, voice strained as she stroked his bruised face and sighed.  _Being the new kid is never easy_ , she would tell him, and he had to hold back a snort, thinking of Kate and her easy friendships, fitting in when he always seemed to stand apart, no matter where they went.

Scott winces, forcing himself to breathe though it hurts—hands shoving at his back, pushing his lungs into his gut as his body spins around, tripping over his own feet as he’s passed from person to person, until a voice cuts through the dizzy white-noise filling his head.

“Hey, dipshits, didn’t your mothers ever tell you to pick on someone your own size?”

Scott couldn’t see who it was, but it made them laugh, the leader—Chris, captain of the football team (there was some irony in that, moving from Kansas to Texas, trading lacrosse players for football, and maybe one day Scott could laugh about it) digging his fingers into Scott’s shoulders where his hands had clamped down. “Like you?” he asked, chuckling. “You’re not much of an improvement, Gecko.”

Scott had heard the new laugh join the group, but it felt faker, sharp while the others were hearty and thick. Then one went down, clutching his jaw, his buddy getting a fist the gut and curling on the pavement. Chris nodded to his friend at his side and he went for Scott’s rescuer—now that he could see him, wasn’t much taller than Scott, just as scrawny, but he held his body with a wiry edge, grinning like he knew what he was doing, knew that he was going to win despite the odds.

It was messy, nothing like Scott had ever seen in the movies, violent and bloody, bodies falling on one another without the finesse or style of choreography, hands grabbing and pulling, using hard points of the body—an elbow to the ribs, knee to the gut, a crack of bones ringing in Scott’s ear.

The four of them had limped away, glancing over their shoulders at Scott’s savior as he waved at them, flippant and casual, spitting blood onto the pavement.

Scott tried to make out what he looked like under the bruises and the swollen eye, without the blood staining his teeth when he grinned at him, if his clothes were that ratty and worn, or if the fight had roughed them up, left stains. All that stood out were his eyes—brown and fierce, the fight still burning behind them like he never left it behind.

“Thanks,” Scott choked out, shoving his hands into his pockets, his tongue feeling thick and clumsy, his stomach knotting up. “Uh…”

“Seth,” he supplies, running his hand over his hand, mussing up his already messy hair. “Seth Gecko. And it’s no problem—I hate those fucking assholes, thinking they’re hot shit when they’re  _nothing_.” Seth spits it out like he spit out the blood, like a bitter taste on his tongue.

“Yeah, well—”

But Scott was cut off by a guy appearing at Seth’s side, marched across the parking lot with a purpose then hovering over Seth, tall and broad-shouldered and all long-lined and pressed clothes, buttoned to the neck, but touching Seth’s face like Scott’s mother touched his—examining the damage and fretting, clicking his tongue as Seth tried to bat his hands away.

“Richie, I’m fine,” Seth says, voice going soft, a whine like an undercurrent, but his mouth stays curved.

Richie looks unconvinced, but he pulls his hands away, dropping his arms to his sides. “Fights draw attention, brother.” Richie then turns, noticing Scott as if for the the first time, his eyes intense and large behind his glasses. “Who are you?”

“This is—” Seth starts, but can’t finish.

“Scott,” he answers, shrinking under Richie’s gaze. “Scott Fuller. I just moved here.”

Richie nods and turns away, like Scott wasn’t enough to hold his interest for long, his eyes pulled back to Seth where they seem to settle. “We should get going before any of those guys tell a teacher.”

“They’re not going to tell—” But Seth lets the protest die on his tongue, silenced by the look that Richie presses on him. “Okay, fine. You’re right, like  _always_.” Seth heaves a sigh, then follows when Richie moves, matching pace with him, step for step, their shoulders brushing.

Scott wants to call to him, but he can’t work out what he’d say, the words in his head jumbled, his stomach twisting up as he feels sick, but his chest warm, feeling like he’d been tossed a lifeline. But then Seth turns back, throwing a grin over his shoulder.

“See ya around, Scott.”


	58. I'm a little bit in love with you - Seth/Vanessa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt _cooking together_.

“So where’d you learn how to do this?” Seth asks, stirring the cake batter—if Vanessa had known they didn’t have a mixer, she would have brought over hers; it’s good Seth had strong arms that never tired easily.

Vanessa peers over the brim of the bowl, checking to see how it’s coming, if he’s making sure to keep it smooth, break down the lumps like she told him;  _so far so good_ _._  She pulls back, resting her arms on the counter—it was dusty with flour, but she was already covered, so it didn’t matter; baking was never very neat. “Working at a coffeeshop when I was sixteen.”

Seth’s eyebrows go up and she wonders if he’s ever met anyone who’s held a legitimate job, if he even believes in it. Easier to slip his hands into someone’s pocket than toil away for a measly sum per hour.

“Under the table, of course,” she continues. “I didn’t have papers and I had run away from the system, but the owner was one of those rare good people, you know? Looked the other way and I made enough cash to keep me afloat. Anyway, sometimes I messed around in the back after I had put the day’s pastries in the oven, trying recipes I copied from books in the library. Some turned out to be fucking disasters, but I learned eventually what worked and what didn’t.”

Seth sets the bowl down on the counter—Vanessa grabs for the spoon, stirs the batter a bit to test the consistency;  _seems about right_ —and he laughs a little, light and breathy, shaking his head.

“What?”

“It’s nothing,” he says, rubbing his hand down his face, smearing batter across his cheek, down the bridge of his nose, grinning a little. “Richie used to do the same thing. Not about baking, but anything else. Spent hours pouring through the stacks, flipping pages, absorbing words like a goddamn sponge.”

His features soften as he ducks his head, mouth curving as his eyelashes fan across the tops of his cheeks, and Vanessa has to look away—like she was caught red handed staring at something she shouldn’t have, something private, and for too long. But his face draws her back in when she feels his eyes on her; she looks up and feels her heart trip over a beat in her chest, worrying that she might be in some danger.

“So where’d you learn how to cook?” Vanessa asks, swallowing and folding her arms over her chest, leaning with her hip towards the counter. 

He was new to baking, she could tell with the way he carefully measured out everything, eyes falling back on the recipe before he moved onto the next ingredient, but he was comfortable in his kitchen and they weren’t completely devoid of tools; there were spatulas and peelers, along with a variety of pots and pans that looked like they were used. It’s funny, she wouldn’t have pegged it, but it makes sense. Seth was always good with his hands, whether it was swiping wallets  or fitting together the pieces of a gun or breaking it down again.

Seth grins a bit, tosses it over his shoulder while he puts the dirty dishes in the sink, looking a bit like he won’t tell her, that he’ll keep it his secret, but he turns away from the sink without turning on the water to let the bowls soak, facing her. “Home EC in high school before I dropped.”

She laughs, biting her lip. “To pick up unsuspecting girls, I imagine?”

Seth’s brow furrows, cocking his head. “Not really,” he says.

Vanessa’s gut tightens, like it does sometimes around him, tripping over something she hasn’t figured out yet, something he won’t tell her, but she knows she made a mistake and it flushes up in her cheeks, burning up her face as he goes silent.

She breathes in deep. “You wanna learn how to make frosting?” she asks, relaxing when his expression eases and he nods.

After, Vanessa washes the dishes while Seth wipes down the counters while they wait for the cake to cool. “Thanks,” he says, looking up as he drags the damps rag around the edges of the sink. “You know, for doing this.”

“It’s no big deal.”

Seth holds still a moment, keeping his eyes locked on hers as his jaw tightens and he swallows—there’s something about his eyes that say  _but it is_ , but she’s not sure why, hasn’t cracked open that part of him.  _It’s just a cake._

“I hope he likes it,” she says, testing the words out.

Her stomach flutters hard when Seth’s mouth breaks into a smile, one that alights his eyes and shudders open across his face, genuine under the locked down layers.

“He’ll love it.”


	59. Your voice was too loud - Scott/Seth

Seth knows his guns, handles the one Scott drags out to the abandoned baseball diamond like he was born to it, dismantling it and putting it back together like he’s trying to impress him—his grin worms through Scott’s guts, squirming and wriggling and white-hot, teeth squared off and white, biting open his mouth as he lifts the gun, aims, and shoots the bottle off the low wooden fence.

It keys Scott up, the sound of the bullet hitting, shattering the glass, the way Seth’s shoulders shrug, loose and casual, like he hadn’t just hit it—bull’s eye. Makes his skin prickle, goosepimples exploding up and down his arms, even in the heat, under the hot sun.

“It’s easy, kid,” Seth says, kid kicking off his tongue in the way that makes Scott want to punch him, tell him,we’re the same goddamn age, but Seth wears a world-weariness on his sleeve that makes him feel older, dangerous in the way Scott wants to be, wants a taste of the respect Set can earn with one school-yard brawl.

Scott misses the target, but Seth elbows him and messes up his hair like he hadn’t, laughing warm and cheerful, then tells him what he did wrong, lifting and arranging his arms, holding him and not saying a word when Scott trembles—he gets the bottle this time, Seth rewarding him with an arm slung over his shoulders and his knuckles digging into his scalp.  

 

 

( _We should bring it to school,_ he tells Seth, when it’s put away in his backpack, when Seth is walking him to the nicer part of town, _that would show those assholes who to mess with._

Seth glances at him, sidelong and serious, his eyebows scrunching up and forehead crinkling, and tells him, _nah, buddy, we’re not bringing it to school_.

Scott feels his mouth twist and scowl, until Seth body-checks, then wraps his arms around his shoulders, close enough to feel his breath on his cheek, _hey, I got your back, okay?_

The terrible fucking thing is—Scott believes him.)

 

 

Seth comes over for dinner when he asks—his mom had told Scott to invite him, running her palm over his cheek, whispering, _I’m so glad you found a friend—_ and Scott regrets it in the same breath he loves it, watching his father’s face screw up eyeing Seth’s second-hand clothes and beat-up sneakers, turning red whenever Seth opens up his mouth, a sharp _Sir_ whenever he answers him, dripping with disdain, disrespect and Scott had never seen someone talk like that to his father before.

Kate stares at him like she wants him to do something, kick Seth out, apologize, but he lifts his shoulders at her, pulling his legs back before she can kick him and shoves a mound of mashed potatoes in his mouth.

“I don’t want you seeing that boy again,” his father tells him, hypocritical Pastor Jacob Fuller, preaching tolerance and acceptance, but never practicing it, never giving an inch, laying judgement that Scott rolls his eyes at.

“Not gonna happen,” he says, and walks away before his father can grab him, before he can yell, stepping out onto the porch and meeting Seth headon.

Seth has the decency to look apologetic, another surprise, hands shaking and running through his thick, dark hair. ‘Sorry about that, it’s just—your old man, he’s the kind of guy that gets under my skin, I didn’t–”

Scott kisses him silent, hands cupping around his neck, pads of his thumbs scraping against the newborn stubble under his jaw, the kind Scott hasn’t got yet, the kind that burns against the edges of his mouth when Seth kisses back, pulling his t-shirt tight over his shoulders when he grabs fistfuls of it.

Kissing Seth is like putting a gun in his hands, like feeling he gets when his stomach drops and the trigger is squeezed, like keeping balanced in the kickback.

His mouth is pink and swollen when he walks back inside, Kate making a noise when she see him, half-squeak, roughened by a scoff, tossing her hair and his father watches him like he saw, like he’s always watched him—like he never should have taken him all the way home from China, disappointed.

Scott couldn’t give a shit.

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi to me on [tumblr](http://richiesseth.tumblr.com)!


End file.
